


My Lonely Heart Calls

by HMGfanfic, threecoursedessert



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, De Facto Boyfriends, Deconstructing the “Gay Best Friend” Trope, Eliot POV, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Half Silly Fun/Half Rumination on Self-Worth, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, No Beast AU, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression, Technically a Rom Com, fyi the author is a big rom com fan & so all satire comes from a place of deep affection, magic shenanigans, references to canonical trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26479717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMGfanfic/pseuds/HMGfanfic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/threecoursedessert/pseuds/threecoursedessert
Summary: “...And this weekend is my best friend’s wedding, and you’re inexplicably planning it, and you wear lots of pink, and you say things like,There’s a fire sale in my bedroom, all clothes 100% off.Unironically.”Eliot bit his tongue. “I mean, a little ironically.”—Quentin Coldwater is the youngest and hottest architect in New York City, while his best friend Eliot Waugh is just along for the ride––on his bright pink moped, of course! But when Quentin impulsively quits his dream job to chase love atop the Empire State Building, he panics at the last second… and makes a world-shattering claim. Now, it’s up to Eliot to ensure this strange new Q still gets his happily ever after (ideally without destroying his whole life in the process.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Eliot Waugh/Mike McCormick, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, blink and miss it Eliot Waugh & Margo Hanson
Comments: 63
Kudos: 236
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m super excited to finally be posting my MHEA, at long last. For my prompt, I chose 2019’s cinematic masterpiece _Isn’t It Romantic?_ and promptly ran the hell away with it, in order to bring you all a weird little fic.
> 
> Many folks to thank, most especially the brilliant Blair for her incredible art (seriously!!!) and patience with my bonkers writing process. Likewise, a big thank you to Nasti for her beta job through my constantly shifting drafts, my IRL writing friend Kel for her extra beta job despite not giving two shits about these characters (have I told you lately that I love you?)... and of course Maii & the mods for making this such a smooth and fun event. 
> 
> One quick note: This story is definitely less fluffy than it sounds. Uh. Sorry? I’m notoriously bad at gauging what people consider “angst,” so what I’ll say is that there are moments of morose existential reflection, direct references to depression, indirect references to alcohol abuse, lots of messy-lite behavior/thought processes, and a few insecurity-driven poor decisions. But not a ton! Maybe. Depends how you look at it. :)
> 
> Anyway, I’ll have what she’s having and nobody puts baby in a corner. <3

* * *

  
**  
** “I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home, only to no home I’d ever known...  
  
And it was like magic.”

— **Sleepless in Seattle**

* * *

_  
Thunder broke the clouds overhead._

_Sheets of rain fell like glass, but his drenched skin was warm. His hands illuminated the gray pall over the sand, a white-gold orb captured between the lines of his knuckles. Shoes floated, splintered wood crashed upon the shore. His pink tie was painted red in the rainstorm, clinging to his chest like a bloodied crack down his rib cage. Yet only laughter rang through the charged air and the wild tempest._

_His hand found another, running across the craggy rocks and twisted roots, until the cave swallowed them whole, inviting in its darkness and its shelter. Hands slid down bodies and sopping clothes fell to the ground; lips and and teeth dragged down skin, hot breath panted in every hidden place._

_But the laughter was what he remembered most._

_The laughter, and the way those soft eyes found him in the glow, that crooked smile fixed on him, shining brighter than all the stars._

_“You’re the most fun I’ve ever had,” an iridescent voice said, striking a whole new lightning. “El, I’m so—”_

The alarm blared with a happy pop song. 

Light streamed through luxurious curtains, glittering pink and winking gold macramé. Eliot Waugh stretched his arms and slid up his silk sleep mask, settling it in his mess of bed head curls. With a grin at the promise of a wonderful new day in New York City, he sprang out of bed, whistled along to “It’s Rainin’ Men,” and danced right into his giant walk-in closet.

The strange dream was forgotten.

* * *

  
  


**The Offices of Hanson Architecture & Design**

****_Manhattan, New York, NY_

  
Eliot threw his legs onto the conference table, pink chinos long and bright against the gray surface. The air vibrated, anxious and frenetic, under a pin drop silence. The big presentation was in full swing. It was what they all had been tirelessly working toward, over countless cups of coffee and too many sleepless nights. All for the chance at the big promotion, for the chance of a _lifetime_.

Well.

For most people.

Every day, Eliot went to work at nine and left by five, in honor of Saint Dolly. Every day, he waltzed out the spinning glass doors into the sweet early evening air, just in time for happy hour at Henry’s Pub, for a cocktail and a laugh. And most of his time in between was spent looking at pretty colors, or gossiping with the reception staff, or knocking on his favorite door, cajoling and needling a reluctant yet pliable accomplice into as many breaks as one could reasonably fit into an eight-hour timespan. Idle hands may have been the devil’s plaything, but Eliot had aspired to that particular post from a young age.

Not that he didn’t like his job well enough. He did. The people were nice, the coffee fresh, the view from every window a giddy swoon of _New York City._ But even with a creative career or whatever solidly in place, Eliot preferred to focus on his true passions, the driving beats of his heart, tantalizing in the distance beyond the drudgery of the day-to-day. Passions such as—

Wedding planning. 

Or impulse shopping. Or listening to Rihanna, or wearing sunglasses, or drinking piña coladas and flirting with the hot bartenders who begrudgingly remade him said piña coladas after he invariably sent them back for being _too light on the piña_ , a double entendre wrapped in genuine complaint about the mixology. He loved purple orchids and white silk sheets, he lived under strobe lights and danced in sequins. He made art and mischief in equal measure, laughing as loud as he could and floating through life on a song and a dream. Très bon, monsieur.

So with a slurping sip of his fruity blended Starbucks™ drink, Eliot leaned back on one arm, the button of his dress shirt popping open, revealing his chest hair to the grateful world. The meeting trudged on, but his heart was light and his spirit spry. He was contented and unconcerned. As always.

But for once, Eliot turned his flitting attention back to the dull proceedings, a small grin stretching low across his face. 

There was one other reason he liked his job.

“In conclusion, I think you can see that this design will make an excellent addition to the New York City skyline,” Quentin Coldwater said, in his best middle school book report voice. “But most importantly, it will be a proud addition to the Hanson A&D legacy of excellence. Thank you for your time.”

Standing next to his wobbly yet detailed poster board drawing of a twenty-story skyscraper, Quentin wore his cutest little powder blue suit, floppy brown hair falling across his brow. He held his breath, points of his jaw popping, expression serious and earnest. As always.

Eliot tucked the grin away, licking a bit of whipped cream off his lip. The two of them had always been a study in contrasts; the odd couple work husbands, cursed by the tragic fate of Quentin’s heterosexuality. They certainly weren’t the first two people anyone would guess to be friends, and especially not _best_ friends, the kind that spent almost every waking hour together.

While Quentin read _The Economist_ , Eliot only recognized _Us Weekly_ as the one true legitimate news source. In times of trouble, Eliot was a glitter bomb and Quentin was a firmly worded letter. Where Eliot sparkled in jewel tones, Quentin was a soft pastel. Quentin, a cup of chamomile; Eliot, a sugar-rimmed cosmo. Different as different could be. It should have been a disaster.

But they made each other laugh.

So.

And where Eliot was a social butterfly, Quentin was more of a dedicated worker bee, the obvious shoe-in for the big promotion. He was Hanson A&D’s star architect, the youngest and hottest in the city, in more ways than one. Hanging proudly over the table, Quentin’s winning smile gleaned from the cover of the spring special edition of _Architecture Quarterly_ , declaring him the city’s most eligible bachelor. Eliot always liked to joke that the girls may come for Quentin’s big smile, but they stayed for his even bigger brown eyes.

For some reason though, the inevitable coronation was moving slower than expected. At the head of the table, the Queen Bee herself—the one and only Margo Hanson—stared Quentin down, red lips pursed, head cocked at a sharp angle. Only the whir of the air conditioning underscored the long stretch of quiet.

“I have a dog.” 

Her sickly sweet voice sent a chill through the room. Quentin didn't move, except that his shoulders slumped. Margo stood, giving him a vicious smile, swaying her hips. A sunbeam slanted across her path and New York quaked in her wake.

“Her name is Pookie. She’s a white Pomeranian and she wears a Tiffany collar. I share my nightly ice cream with her, she sleeps on my pillow, and she gives my cold, dark world a little bit of warm light.” Margo paused, flicking out her manicured fingernail with a weaponized sigh. “I would kill and die for her.”

Eliot was enraptured. 

“But this morning, my sweet Pookie took an unsanctioned shit in my hallway and I stepped in it with my bare feet. Wet and squishy between my toes, the putrid smell invading my nostrils like a mushroom cloud. It still makes me _gag_ to think about. It may have even diminished my love for her, however infinitesimally, which is not a charge I make lightly.”

Quentin stared down at the floor. He didn’t say a word as Margo stood right beside him, lifting her tiny chin and biting her teeth at his ear.

“But I would rather step in Pookie’s shit every morning for the rest of my life than sit through this presentation again. I’d rather _moisturize my face_ with her liquidy yellow-green diarrhea as part of my daily ablutions than ever see theses piece of garbage you call sketches and blueprints ever again. Do you understand me, Coldwater?”

Quentin’s face went pale, fingers red-knuckling his briefcase as he took his lumps. His eyes darted everywhere, like he was trying not to tear up. Protectiveness surged through Eliot, making him want to behead armies with his bare hands or pour red wine all over Margo’s white sheath dress. But instead, he did what he did best—

“Okay, now, that’s a little too kinky... even for me!” 

—And the tension shattered to dust.

Everyone in the room groaned and laughed, rolling their eyes goodnaturedly. Even Q managed a tiny smile, which was the only victory that mattered. Eliot spent his days spinning around in his chair and watching pirated episodes of _Say Yes to the Dress_ and making people laugh. Making Quentin laugh.

It was what he did.

But Margo stared around the table with a grave expression. “You pathetic losers have failed me today. You were born disappointments and you will die disappointments.”

“Sorry, Dad,” her assistant Todd said into his lap, hanging his head in shame. “I mean, Ms. Hanson.”

She decimated the room, destroying her employees with barely more than a blink. But when her eyes finally landed on Eliot, they softened.

“Oh, of course, I’m not talking about you, El,” Margo chirped, waggling a quick hand out at him. “Hilarious joke. Never change a _thing_ about what you do, honey. You’re invaluable.”

Eliot blew her an air kiss. “Thanks, boo.”

“What the hell?” Quentin’s briefcase dropped to the floor and his poster board fell backward, scattering everywhere. “Eliot has literally done nothing but sit there and drink a pink Frappuccino™.”

“It’s called a Strawberry Cupcake Delight.” Eliot flicked his tongue around the straw. “Want some?”

“Obviously I do.” Quentin frowned. “But the point is—”

Margo whipped around in a flash, jabbing her finger onto the table. “The point is, I want less questions and more _doing your damn job_ , Coldwater.”

“I did my damn job, Margo,” Quentin argued, calm and collected under pressure as always. “The design is structurally sound, in a classic modernist style, with ample green space. Not to mention, all the specs are _perfect_ —”

“Perfect.” Margo crossed her arms. “Oh, you’re always perfect, Quentin. No one denies that.”

Eliot stared down at his hands. The sunlight was in his eyes. Margo scowled, returning to her slow circle around the table.

“Everyone knows you’re the youngest and hottest architect in the city, but sometimes it seems like you’re not committed anymore. Like you have no _passion_ for it. It’s sickening.”

Eliot frowned, considering her words. Margo was intense and sometimes cruel, but her rationale was usually sound. It was true that Quentin had been... distracted lately, but everyone had rough patches. What mattered was that he loved his job. More than anything.

But as Quentin opened his mouth to argue, his words died. “I—” 

He staggered backwards, a hand tight in his hair, and a slow smile spread across his handsome face.

“Maybe I’m not passionate about any of this?” Quentin let out an incredulous huff of breath, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “God, maybe architecture isn’t what life is all about, Margo. Maybe it’s about something more. Something like... _love_.”

Eliot shook his head reflexively, his stomach trying to crawl up his spine.

Margo scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Quentin cast his eyes out the window, across the beautiful line of buildings and river to the east. “For as long as I can remember, the only thing I ever wanted was to be a famous New York City architect. I wanted all the glitz, all the glamour. And I got it, I got everything I wanted, by working here. By working for you, Margo. I hope you know I’m so grateful for that.”

“Get to your point,” Margo snapped.

“It’s just—sometimes it feels like I’m constantly chasing an impossible happiness. Like there’s nothing that can satisfy me, nothing that will ever fill this void inside me. I tell myself lies, that I’ll never find peace unless I find the _next_ impossible thing. But who’s to say what I want won’t just change again and again? And all for what?”

Eliot blinked and a thousand buzzing gnats—dark and loathsome creatures of invasive thought—flew away in a rush. Nothing worth dwelling on.

“I told a beautiful woman, someone smart and kind, someone who actually _likes_ me—” Quentin laughed like he couldn’t quite believe it, sending a sharp pang to Eliot’s heart “—that I couldn’t go sight-seeing with her today. Because I had to do this presentation. For my job. Like a total jackass.”

He threw his arms up and started to pace.

“Where I saw a fiscally responsible decision, all Alice saw was my obsession with my career. All Alice saw was how easily I could toss her aside. All Alice saw was me choosing something unimportant—something _worthless_ —over my time with her, again and again. In her eyes, I chose something that would never love me back, could _never_ love me back, over her freely given heart.”

Eliot examined his nails with a keen interest, heart sinking low in his chest. Right.

_Right._

Alice had been Margo’s assistant. Her _gorgeous_ assistant, as smart and sweet as she was blonde and busty. She liked horses and fairytales. She could and would chat your ear off about the proper way to make a hot fudge sundae. By every measure, Alice Quinn was lovely and quirky and _darling_ and just—well. Perfect, especially for a guy like Q.

If Quentin Coldwater was the most open-hearted dreamer in the city, then Alice Quinn was undoubtedly his dream girl. 

“You’re right that my passion isn’t here, Margo. That’s because it’s out sight-seeing around New York City, with the woman who could very well be the love of my life. And I intend to join them.”

“If you walk out of here, Coldwater,” Margo threatened, voice hissing between her teeth. “Don’t even think about coming back.”

Quentin pointed at Eliot, as he rushed toward the door. “El, I’m borrowing your moped.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Eliot said with a quick salute and a forced smile. His chest was a tumbled mess of broken electric wires, sparking and snapping. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you for everything, Ms. Hanson.” Quentin gave Margo a small bow. “Please consider this my two weeks notice.”

“How about I consider this your no-day notice because I’m _firing_ your ass?”

“Works for me,” Quentin said, kissing the tips of his fingers in a final goodbye. “Ciao for now, friends.”

Then he ran out the door, leaving nothing but dropped jaws behind him.

“Cocky little shit,” Margo muttered, as she put her hands on her hips and chuckled. 

—Eliot stood abruptly. 

All eyes flew to him as he swung his legs off the table, knees wobbling to pull up to his full height, one hand balanced on the table. “I have to go too.”

Margo’s eyes were wry, but softened on him. Like they always did. “So is work just optional now?”

“No, I very much want to keep my job.” Eliot ran around the table, gathering his coat and wrapping his cashmere scarf around his neck. “But I just—Margo, you know I can’t let him leave like this.” 

Something in her eyes shifted, like surprise. “Really?”

“Yes.” Eliot placed his hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Quentin doesn’t know how to drive a moped. He’ll crash and die.”

When her face dropped in a strange sort of disappointment, Eliot pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, grabbed his Strawberry Cupcake Delight, and ran out the door with a quick yell to his best friend’s retreating back. The course of true love may have never run smooth, but Eliot prided himself on making the ride more fun along the way.   
  


It was the least he could do.

* * *

  
  
_The Cottage was livelier than usual._

_Tuesdays were a dead zone, weekly deserted islands of crushing ennui. By then, the Sunday hangover had all but worn off and the anticipation of Friday night was unreachable, leaving nothing but an upward climb and skull-numbing class lectures in the dustbowl._ _But on that particular afternoon, there was a delightful shift in the wind._

_The first years had arrived, bringing with them their shiny new disciplines, a reason to party, and a welcome break from the monotony. Every new physical kid was bright-eyed with wonder, a sea of smiling cheeks, flushed with drink and accomplishment. They clinked glasses and shook their groove things and sent magic sparks blasting dangerously through the air. It_ _was a bit like a kindergarten graduation. Sure, all the adults in the room knew it was fucking bullshit… but that didn’t make the day any less special for the young ones._

_Music swelled through the humid air, all body odor and marijuana smoke, and Eliot stretched back into his one safe haven from irritating small talk._ _Margo sighed happily and scratched her fingernails into his scalp, as they watched over the fray from their regal perch._

_Eliot tried to scan the room—he_ truly _did—_ _to appraise each new member of their cabal of degenerates. But stripes and spots never changed, so his eyes never failed to return to his cute boy du jour._ _T_ _he boy in question sat cross-legged on the couch, trying to float a deck of playing cards, with an endearing amount of effort. His pouty lips pinched in concentration. His long brown hair fell over his face in waves. His jaw set determinedly, defined muscles rippling under a layer of dark stubble._

_His name was Quentin Coldwater, and he was very, very pretty._

_When the cards finally rose in the air and spun in a circle, Quentin’s stupidly big eyes crinkled with delight.... and Eliot hummed, the sound harmonizing with the thrum of desire low in his belly._

_“You and your first year boys,” Margo accused. “What’s your obsession with the flavor of the month?”_

_His obsession was that he wanted to know exactly what flavor Quentin Coldwater was, multiple times over, on every surface of the house. It should have been a given by now, something he and Margo had already exchanged notes about, well in the past tense. Quentin had been more or less enthralled with Eliot since the first day they met, when the poor boy choked over his words upon the sight of him. Yes, perhaps the realization that magic was real had something to do with the stunned expression too, but still. It didn’t take a psychic to see the attraction simmering under the jumpy surface._

_But alas, Eliot had good taste. That meant he_ _wasn’t the only one who had noticed the squirrelly geek was actually hot under all the rumpled sweaters and permafrowns. E.g., Quentin was currently flanked by the blonde Alice Quinn—socially awkward magical genius extraordinaire, who just reeked of a tragic backstory—and a dark-haired girl he hadn’t quite met yet. But she was the one who was_ always _around him, with smokey eyeshadow and a possessive hand on his knee._ _Quentin might have been oblivious, but Eliot was not. Made the endeavor slightly more complicated. Timing was crucial._

_“Aw, come on.” Eliot tilted his head up to smile at Margo. “He’s a high-strung super nerd. We love those.”_

_She snorted a reluctant assent, twirling a curl around her index finger. “What are you waiting for then?”_

_He sighed loftily, keeping his eye on the prize with an almost academic interest. Quentin gazed up at the floating cards like they were his own private aurora borealis—a shimmering supernova all his own—and paid no heed to anything else around him._

_Eliot’s heart did a weird little flutter._ _He ignored it._

_“Tell me, Bambi._ _When presented with a delicious meal, do you scarf it down? Or do you_ savor it, _bite by bite?”_

_She ran the very tip of her tongue along the shell of his ear. “Depends how hungry I am.”_

_Eliot let out an exhale, as Quentin wrung his fidgety hands around a half-nursed signature cocktail. “I just want to take my time and ruin his life a little. Call me old fashioned.”_

_“You’re gonna destroy him,” Margo cooed._

_“Aw, Quentin is a nice boy.” Eliot smirked. “So I’ll be very_ _nice about it.”_

_Margo laughed, a brassy and unabashed sound, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Eliot held her hands, lazily played with her tiny fingers, and kept watching the show._

_When the cards started to fall to the ground, Quentin actually managed to catch them, using a forceful burst to send them even higher in the air, spinning with renewed vigor. It made the dark-haired girl whoop out a cheer and little Quentin took a bow, pretending to tip a hat toward her, a tiny proud smile tugging up his pink lips._

_Eliot decided to cut the shit._

_Without so much as a twitch of his dick_ _, Eliot made the cards dip and shift in a graceful pattern, turning the spinning circle into a spinning heart. The girls clapped and laughed even harder, cackling into their knees when the heart started pulsing in time to the music. Eliot let out a snort.  
_

_They were_ drunk.

_But of course, Quentin twisted all around, sweetly confused and searching for the source of the mysterious magic._ _When his eyes finally landed on Eliot, he froze in place at the immediate eye contact, cheeks burning bright red, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do._

_Never coy, Eliot shot him an easy wink._

_Quentin gaped at him._

_For a brief heart-stopping moment, Eliot worried he had gotten it all wrong. That he had misread the little stammers and teases and sideways glances passed between them since they had first met, when Eliot had escorted his grumpy Peter Pan to the Brakebills exam room. He_ _was rarely wrong about these things, but—_

_But._

But.

_But then the heavens parted in a perfect sunbeam, when Quentin smiled at him.  
_

* * *

_Eliot waited another hour._

_He knew this game. He_ liked _this game. The slow circle, the paced crawl toward the inevitable. The sweet drip of tension, caressed and heightened through the play-acting of indifference. Only fools rushed in; the wise knew there was a balance—a precision—to getting the burn level just right._

_So Eliot did his rounds, ever the attentive host. He made a few signature drinks and he told outlandish stories to the usual captive audience. He flirted with strategically placed boys and danced with Margo, throwing his head back and swiveling his hips against her ass with abandon. He made sure he had_ fun, _for real, not just for show. Nothing was ever more enticing._

_It was only once Quentin was sitting alone on the couch that Eliot made his approach. He smoothly slid into the space next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder._

_“Congratulations on your initiation,” Eliot murmured in his ear. “You’re part of the elite now, kid.”_

_“Uh, not so fast,” Quentin snorted, a little drunkenly, a lot cute. He whispered like he was telling a secret. “I’m kind of an interloper.”_

_“Even better.” Eliot plucked Quentin’s drink out of his hands and took a sip. “Enjoying yourself?”_

_Quentin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I actually am. It’s, like—sorta nice to have something in common with everyone right off the bat. Makes it a lot easier to, I don’t know, connect with people, I guess? Or is that too camp counselor-y to say?”_

_It absolutely was, but that was the charm of it._

_Eliot tucked Quentin’s hair back, letting his fingers trail along the skin of his neck, coaxing out a shiver._ _“Do you like hidden reading nooks?”_

_“Uh, yes?” Quentin jerked, a stunned little jump. “Yes, I definitely do.”_

_Their lips were inches apart, the electric space made more potent by Quentin’s dark eyes flickering down every few seconds. If Eliot took his time, he swore he could count Quentin’s long lashes, gorgeously framing those eager eyes. His spine tingled with the knowing—the_ knowing— _that he could have Quentin right then, right there, hot and heavy on the public couch, if he wanted._ _And, fuck—_

_Eliot_ wanted. 

_It had been a long time since he had wanted this much. His fingers ached with the soul-deep need to touch Quentin, to feel every inch of his skin, to kiss him breathless, to coax out as many shivers and shudders as he could, for as long as possible._

_—Which was all the more reason to do it right._

_“Holy shit, it’s huge in here,” Quentin said, wondrous and lovely as he followed Eliot into the secret space. “It’s practically, like, a bed.”_

_Eliot loosened his tie. “You don’t say.”_

_He stretched his legs out, beckoning him closer. Quentin scooted in happily, smile small and pleased. They shared a bottle of wine in almost oddly comfortable silence—considering they were definitely about to fuck—while Eliot took in the full sight of his favorite first year boy._

_Quentin Coldwater, who was as much a strange delight as his name had been on the welcome card. Quentin Coldwater, who pushed another restless hand back through his hair. Quentin Coldwater, who wore acid-washed jeans. He didn’t have bad posture as much as no posture, crumpling up his frame as small as it could get. There was a book peeking its way out of his pocket_ _and his socks were two different shades of white. He bit at a hangnail on his thumb and cleared his throat, eyes darting everywhere._

_Everyone always assumed Eliot’s ideal man would be as well-coiffed as he was. That Mr. Perfect would be as elegant, as laissez-faire, as fastidious. But peacocks pecked other peacocks to death for their prettier feathers._ _Quentin Coldwater may not have had any showy pretensions about him, but he had the soft set of his lips, his defined forearms, a rumpled brow, and a criminally sharp jawline._ _He had kind eyes and gentle hands._

_Eliot swallowed hard, offsetting a sudden lurch in his chest._

_“People must, uh—” Quentin let out a breathy laugh, still playing with his fingers. “They must fight over who gets to use this space all the time, right? I mean, fuck, I'd live in here if they’d let me."_

_"I could make that happen," Eliot said, short of actually puffing out his chest. “Anything you want, just name it. The keys to the Cottage are yours.”_

_He handed Quentin the wine, letting their fingers touch—a graze, nothing more. Calculated simmer._

_"No, uh, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer though." Quentin cleared his throat again, rolling the wine between his hands. "I mean—uh, shit, unless—I mean, you were just teasing me. Obviously. Duh.”_

_"If I were teasing you, you'd know it.”_

_Eliot’s heart lit up when Quentin flushed bright red, all the way down to the flap of his henley. He opened his mouth, like he was going to respond, but just took a giant gulp of the wine. Then another.  
_

_Third time was the charm._

_"So do you come here often?"_

_Quentin asked it on a squeak, then slammed his eyes shut._ _“Shit. I mean—I didn't mean that to sound like—um, it wasn't a_ line. _I just meant, you know, do you hang out in here a lot or do you prefer more—"_

_"God, you're so fucking cute," Eliot said in his rumbliest voice, effectively cutting off the ramble. He laid a purposeful hand on Quentin's thigh, relishing the heat of him, the way his strong muscles tensed and relaxed under his touch._

_“Oh,” Quentin breathed, big eyes dropping back down his lips. He squirmed a little, inching closer. “No, fuck. I mean. Fuck,_ you’re— _”_

_“I’m what, sweetheart?” Eliot danced his fingers into the jean fabric in tiny circles, slowly trailing higher. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic fluttering of Quentin’s lashes, the quickening of his breath, the deepening red dappling the stubbled skin of his throat._

_“You’re—” Quentin trailed off again, eyes closed. “Um. Shit.”_

_Eliot tugged him in by belt loops. Quentin moved easily, pliant and lovely, until he was settled between his legs. Eliot ran his hands up his soft shirt, across the expanse of his surprisingly broad chest, and down to cup his ass, stomach tightening in anticipation. He nipped his teeth at his earlobe, flicked his tongue against the shell, and Quentin let out a tiny sound, somewhere between a catching breath and an honest-to-god whimper. Eliot’s cock twitched, a tiny heartbeat pulse._

_“I’m..._ shit _?” Eliot purred, teasingly, on purpose, nuzzling at his temple._

_“Jesus, no,” Quentin said, blinking his eyes open. “You’re—”_

_His eyes searched across Eliot’s face, like he could find his words there. He lifted his fingers and placed them delicately_ , tenderly _, along the lines of his cheekbones. A private smile lifted on his lips, bringing out dimples Eliot had never seen before, blooming like a primrose in a secret garden._

_“You’re beautiful,” Quentin said quietly._

_Eliot’s heart_ slammed _in his chest._

_His stomach plummeted into the core of the earth. Eliot could feel himself shake his head reflexively, a sharp back and forth movement, trying to communicate an urgency he couldn’t explain. His pulse thumped wildly and heat rose to his cheeks,_ violently _, while his brain screamed_ no, you’re wrong, that isn’t me, not like that, not with you _looking_ at me like that. _It isn’t—it wasn’t—that wasn’t—_

_That wasn’t—_

_No._

_Quentin was a pretty thing, an_ eager _thing, but he was also timid and anxious and inexperienced and he wasn’t—he wasn’t the guy who could do this, who could make Eliot_ feel _like this. He wasn’t—and Eliot certainly wasn’t—_

_But before Eliot could flail, before he could bolt out the door as fast as he could, before he could think to say anything, before he could even think to_ breathe—

_Quentin kissed him softly on the mouth._

_His fingers tangled into his hair, his tongue slid along his bottom lip, tentative and curious, like a question. Helpless to his desires, to the unexpected siren call of_ Quentin Coldwater _, Eliot answered with a moan, pulling them flush against each other. He kissed back like the world was ending. Maybe it was. Who the fuck knew._

_His hands moved under Quentin’s shirt, desperate for his skin, desperate to get them both naked, desperate for_ anything _to keep them in the moment. Eliot didn’t want to question. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to_ _feel_ _. He just wanted to get lost in the curl of a tongue in his mouth, the tingling grind of a hard cock into his lap, and the way strong arms wound all the way around his neck, pushing Eliot back so a gorgeous boy could lay on top of him, so every curve of their bodies could fit together. He just wanted this._

_Nothing but this._

_Just this, just for now. A perfect memory in the making. Something to think about on long cold nights, something ephemeral. He could do that._ _This—it didn’t have to be anything more than that._

_It didn’t have to be—_

* * *

Eliot tilted his head toward the sky, shook away the haze of an easily forgotten daydream, and breathed in the wonder of his life. 

The cotton candy clouds passed between the towering steel giants. Music floated over the streets. Perfect strangers smiled, dressed in the classic New York uniform of jewel tones and soft pastels. The trees dotting the sidewalk burst with vivid color, orange and gold and red, hearkening the beginning of the very best season in the very best city.

Life in the Big Apple was always an adventure, imbued with a rush of joy and a hint of sweet promises to come. It was intoxicating, _exhilarating_ , and easy to fall in love with, through every twist and turn that made up the millions of little lives of all the little people who inhabited the—

“Eliot, _watch out!”_

Quentin screamed in his ear, right as a yellow taxi drove in front of them. Not missing a beat, Eliot swerved the front wheel of the moped around the back of the cab, waving his hand up in a quick apology.

“I saw my life flash before my eyes,” Quentin panted out, resting his chin on Eliot’s shoulder as they came to a red light. “Will you please pay attention to where you’re going?”

“Oh, sweetie pie,” Eliot drawled out the side of his mouth. “I can maneuver this thing in my sleep.”

“You don’t have to prove it.”

“Heavy machinery nestled between my thighs is kinda my thing.” Eliot grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “You should be glad you’re friends with a moped gay. We’re a rare breed.”

“What’s a moped gay?”

Eliot revved the engine, a whirring sputter. “Take a ride, baby, maybe you’ll find out.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Quentin let out a soft chuckle, right against his ear. It felt like a brand against his skin, the striking heat reverberating through his whole body. 

_The low magic light overhead swayed and flickered, the party outside raging on. Eliot licked a long stripe down Quentin’s trembling bare chest, sucking marks between the grooves of his overworked rib cage. “Have you ever taken a cock before?”_

_“No,” Quentin gasped out, wrapping his legs tighter around Eliot, using his heels to bring him closer, until their oil-slick cocks slid together. Eliot let out a happy little moan-laugh, bracing one hand on the cushion below Quentin’s head, letting himself into the friction for a few slow thrusts. They’d both already come, hot and fast and desperate, but Eliot was far from ready to bid the evening adieu._

_“I’ve never—” Quentin babbled, eyes closed and brows stitched together, “but I—holy shit, I want, I want—”_

_“Hm.” Eliot nipped at his lower lip, regaining control. “Then I guess I’ll just have to go slow.” He slid a hand down the length of his hot little body, gripping his hip. “Teach you a spell, use a few tricks up my sleeve.” He thumbed at a pebbled pink nipple. “Full-blown tutorial.” He kissed him, slow and filthy. “Poor me.”_

_“Yeah, you, uh,” Quentin laughed, a little strained. His bright eyes shone up at him, long hair fanned out. “You seem devastated.”_

_“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”_

Eliot jerked back to himself as a car laid down hard on its horn. His pulse thumped in his throat, heart spinning in his chest. Quentin rapped on his elbow, alerting him to the light change, and Eliot swallowed around a brambly lump. He blinked the—the _entirely_ unwelcome images away, a single bead of sweat traveling down the length of his back. 

He needed to get a grip.

As they rode toward the towering Grande Dame of 34th Street, Eliot flicked his eyes over at the face perched on his shoulder. Quentin was wearing the silly black passenger helmet, balanced on his head like a plasticky mushroom. His hair was windswept and his eyes unfocused in thought, the set of his heavy brow contemplative and melancholic. 

All at once, Eliot was struck with the urge to reassure him, to tell him he _didn’t have to do this_ , that Quentin could—

Well, it didn’t matter.

Eliot didn’t have any answers. Anything he thought or felt or wished wasn’t welcome anyway. He had his place in Quentin’s life, as much as his _unwelcome_ fantasies insisted on taunting him with dangerously impossible things. In reality, Eliot provided what he provided—support and fun and an occasional cocktail—and that was enough. More than, for what Quentin was looking for.

It had to be.

Finally, Eliot pulled up to a stop in front of the Empire State Building, where the beautiful Alice Quinn waited at the top. Her blonde hair was probably floating in the wind, as she stood at the railings’ edge with a soft sigh. She was probably wearing a pretty pink dress, blue eyes watery as they stared out at the view, so lovely and so lonely. All hope for her happy ending lost, until Quentin would rush through the stairs and crash into her waiting arms.

Eliot’s stomach swooped despite himself. It really was a beautiful story. Perfect for a toast at their wedding.

So they hopped off the bike and Eliot quickly fixed Quentin’s hair for him, tiny little sweeps of his fingers through the messy strands.

“Any advice?” Quentin asked, a tremulous chuckle in his tone. His fingers played with the buttons on his coat as Eliot pressed a stubborn flyaway into his side-part.

“You’re the speech maker, kid.”

He brushed a dead leaf off Quentin’s shoulder.

“Maybe sometimes, but right now I feel—” Quentin cut himself off. “What—what do I even say to her?”

Eliot shrugged. “ _Wanna take the next train to Bonetown?_ ”

“Helpful,” Quentin said quickly, with a short nod. But he also let out a tiny laugh, the edge of his anxiety thawing. That was progress.

“Not my area of expertise.” Eliot slid his hand down the length of Quentin’s chest, smoothing out the wrinkles under his coat. “You know my motto. If he’s still there in the morning…”

“He better be Patrick Swayze, circa 1987.” Quentin shook his head. “No, yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

“Never enough.” Eliot licked his thumb and wiped a bit of ink off Quentin’s chin. “Just tell her how you feel.”

Quentin’s brows gathered. “Right, because that should be—simple. Easy and straightforward.”

“Well, I don’t know about all _that_ , but I do know you literally just quit your dream job for this girl.”

Quentin went a little pale. “I quit my dream job for her.”

“That’s gotta mean something.” Eliot tilted his head, not quite a challenge. “Right?”

“I mean, I guess it better.”

When Quentin gulped, Eliot softened, squeezing his arm. “You’ve got a big heart, Q. Just share it with her and you’ll be great. Promise.”

Eliot chucked him under the chin with a knuckle, ignoring the vice-grip tightening in his own chest. Quentin cleared his throat and peered up at him, brown eyes reflecting the afternoon sunlight and the most famous skyscraper in the world.

“Would it be weird if I asked you to come with me? For moral support?”

“A little,” Eliot laughed. He laughed harder when Quentin’s shoulders slumped. “Hey, you know I’m never opposed to pulling out my pom-poms and a variety of short skirts for you, but I doubt Alice would appreciate the audience.”

Alice and Eliot had a polite yet frosty relationship, ever since the time Eliot bought her an oversized mug that said ‘Cat Lady in Training.’ He still wasn’t totally sure what her problem was. It was covered in sweet little kitties. Seemed up her alley.

“You’ll be great,” Eliot said warmly, clasping his arm. “Promise.”

Quentin nodded, eyes unmoving from the top of the tall building. “Thanks for driving me, El.”

“What are friends for?” Eliot brushed his hair back one last time, overcome with _impossible things_. But then he took a deep breath, clapped his hands, and got a grip.

“Anyway, don’t forget to hydrate and be sure to reference the sections of the Kama Sutra I highlighted for you. I left the book on your nightstand, just in case a situation like this, you know, _arose._ I tried to focus on—”

The rest of his dumb bullshit fell away when Quentin hugged him. 

He stood on his tip toes and threw his arms around Eliot’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. Eliot responded easily, immediately, one arm slung around his friend’s back and the other cradling the back of his head. His face nose buried into the soft strands of his hair, smelling like shampoo and sweat and a touch of Eliot’s own cologne, lingering from the helmet. He closed his eyes and let himself indulge, just one more time.

They held each other for a long while, like the end of an era, like the end of a really great chapter in a really great book. The backs of Eliot’s eyes stung with tears, ones he would _never_ let fall, not if it was the last thing he did. And when Quentin pulled back, he did so with a sniff and red eyes that were probably a trick of the light. 

“Sorry,” Quentin said, though Eliot wasn’t sure what for. “Thanks. Um. Anyway, I’ll—I’ll see you at Julia’s rehearsal dinner tomorrow, right? Big weekend for you.”

Eliot had spent every spare waking moment planning the most beautiful, glittering, fairytale of a wedding for Julia Wicker, Quentin’s oldest friend and Eliot’s casual acquaintance. It would be his Sistine Chapel. His _Waterlilies_. His shining Victory of Samothrace, in every sense of the word.

“Of course,” Eliot said, inclining his head. “I’ll be there with bells and a Bluetooth on, baby bird.”

Quentin glared at him. “No.”

“My dewdrop.”

“Stop it.”

“Snuggle-muffin?”

“ _Quentin_ is fine,” Quentin said, wry grin lighting up his whole face, just the way Eliot liked. “As always.”

“As always,” Eliot sighed dramatically. “Though if Alice thinks I’m going to stop complimenting that cute ass of yours, she’s got another thing coming.”

“Come on.” Quentin’s smile dimmed. “You know I’d never let that happen.”

_Don’t go,_ Eliot almost said. _Stay with me. Please_. 

But a car honked, a harbinger of reality. Eliot was double parked and Quentin had a girl to win over. 

“What are you waiting for, kiddo?” Eliot tilted his head. “Go get her.”

But Quentin didn’t budge.

“I—” He blinked, a tiny frown on his face, like a flicker of panic. “Eliot, am I making a mistake?”

_Yes. Yes, baby, stay with me, please—_

Eliot blinked it away. “You quit your job for her, Q.”

“I know I did,” Quentin spat out. “But I—I don’t know, something just doesn’t _feel_ right. Every time I try to move—it’s like I’m forcing the wrong puzzle pieces together. Do you ever feel like that? Like all of this is too much?”

“Not really,” Eliot answered honestly. “What’s too much?”

“ _Everything._ ” Another car honked. “I don’t know. It’s been a weird day. I feel weird.”

Oh, boy. Eliot inhaled, calling forth all his patience. As wonderful as Quentin was, in every possible way, he could also be a bit of a... well, a bit of a commitmentphobe. The last second hesitation was part and parcel to every single relationship he had ever had.

Eliot should have seen it coming.

“You like Alice. You’ve always liked her.”

Quentin worried his lip between his teeth. “Right.”

“You _love_ Alice.

Quentin frowned. “Yeah, uh, that’s what I feel like _should_ be true? But that’s where I get stuck. I get it, I know I _should_ love her. Like, everything is _compelling me_ to love her, but my heart just—”

“Q,” Eliot grabbed his shoulders. “Don’t do that thing you do, where you start thinking too much and talk yourself out of—”

“How do I know I love her?” Quentin snapped his eyes up. “It feels like I shouldn’t do this unless I _know_. But how do I _know?_ ”

Cars were beeping and honking like a symphony, and the drivers were yelling colorful insults, but Eliot couldn’t have given even half a shit. Not when Quentin needed him. Not when Quentin needed a friend.

“If you hadn’t quit your job,” Eliot asked softly, “who would you have wanted to tell about the promotion first?”

“I don’t think I was going to get it,” Quentin groaned, resting his head on his shoulder. He was warm. “Margo wasn’t exactly impressed and I totally botched the—”

“Don’t rationalize.” Eliot jostled him back to focus. “First instinct. Who would you want to tell?”

The answer was Alice, of course. It had always been Alice. But Eliot needed Q to get there himself.

“I guess, ah, more than anyone, I’d be most excited to tell...” Quentin’s eyebrows lifted as he trailed off. “Huh.”

Eliot smiled, trying to keep any sadness out of the edges. The truth was already there. “When you have a bad day, who would you most want waiting for you on the couch, holding a glass of wine and wearing nothing but a tarty pair of heels?”

He nudged him teasingly with an elbow.

Quentin’s eyebrows disappeared. “ _Huh._ ”

That one had been a particular ice pick to the heart, but Eliot persevered. “Who do you feel like you can be yourself around? Who do you want to argue with, who do you want laugh with, who do you want to cry with? Who do you want to talk to for hours, about everything and nothing?”

“Oh my god.” Quentin abruptly paced away. His face was flushed and wild, a smile starting to spread across his features. “Holy shit.”

“Who makes you _happy_ , Q?” Something tugged at Eliot’s heart, the vibration of a single violin string. “Like I said, I’m no expert, but I think—I think that’s love.”

“Oh my _god._ ” 

A megawatt smile settled into Quentin’s cheeks. His dimples emerged, tiny lines that hugged his grin, and his eyes were glittering with skyscrapers and billboards and every dream Eliot had ever had in his entire life. He looked beautiful. He looked happy.

And if Quentin was happy, Eliot was happy.

“Oh my god, Eliot,” Quentin said suddenly, urgently. His bright red cheeks shone under the sunlight, as he breathlessly turned to him. “El, I know who makes me happy, and I think—holy shit, I think I’m in love with—”

The wind shifted. 

Quentin blinked.

His mouth was still open, mid-thought, but his words had shriveled up. Only a low whimper emerged, until he clamped his jaw shut, nostrils flaring. He blinked again, slower and harder, knees buckling until he caught himself at the last second. He jerked his hands out at his side, as though for balance, and exhaled a rough. His eyes slid to one side. Then to the other.

Quentin stared right at Eliot. “Um.”

“You think you’re in love with...?” Eliot prompted, chuckling over the pain in his heart. “The anticipation is killing me, kid.”

“What the _fuck_?”

Quentin stepped backwards, head jerking all around and body curling in on himself. He stared down at his clothes with a bewildered sneer, plucking at the lapels. “Uh. What the—?”

Concern jolted up Eliot’s spine. “Q?”

Quentin flashed his eyes over. For a quick second, he looked relieved, until fear replaced it again. “Uh, um, okay— _Eliot_?” he asked, like he was confirming his name. Eliot nodded cautiously. “Thank god. Okay, okay, uh, where are we? What is—what is this place?”

“The Empire State Building?” Eliot said slowly, not sure what he meant. “We’re at the Empire State Building, Q.”

“No, no, no,” Quentin laughed, the sound humorless. He spun his arms around and around, like two graceless propellers. “I mean, _this._ What is _this_? What is all _this_?”

Eliot was at a loss. “It’s air.”

“No, it’s not, it’s—” Quentin froze, nostrils flaring wider. “Shit. You’re not actually—wow, okay. This isn’t—wow, _okay._ Okay.”

“Do you need a granola bar?” Eliot pursed his lips. “Or some water? Electrolytes?”

“People don’t get dehydrated as often as you think they get dehydrated, Eliot,” Quentin snapped. “Sometimes it’s other shit.”

“I—okay?” Eliot pushed down any hurt, trying to stay on track. “Quentin, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just need to—” Quentin pulled his hands to the front of his face. He twisted his fingers into a rectangle and stared through the space. “Shit. Okay, um, that’s not—let me try—”

He sniffed hard and held his hands out straight in front of him. His fingers bent in fast motions, halting and elaborate, until they burst over his head. Quentin stared at his fingers, lips twitching.

“Goddammit,” Quentin said after a moment, arms falling to his sides. “God _dammit._ ”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes ticking back and forth, brows crawling up his face. 

Eliot had no idea what to do. “Maybe we should go sit down? There’s a Starbucks™ down the street if you—”

Quentin brought his fists up to his temples. “Shit. Fuck, I fucking—I was drunk. I got drunk and I blacked out and I—I—I obviously did some kind of fucking spell. Oh my god, I’m such a moron.”

Eliot laughed, mostly to cover the ice cold fear rushing through his veins.

“Spell? What, like, Harry Potter?” He affected a British accent. “ _Are you a wizard, Quentin?_ ”

“Harry Potter can lick my balls.” Quentin sucked in a breath through his teeth. Eliot’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Okay, uh, I need to figure out what the fuck is going on and then I can—I go back. This is manageable. It’s fine. I can do this. I’m just—shit, I’m such a goddamn jackass. _Fuck_.”

Eliot’s chest started to close in on itself, so he took a deep breath.

“You’re freaking out,” Eliot said, trying to soothe both Quentin and himself. “You quit your job, you’re having second thoughts about Alice, and your best friend is getting married. That’s a lot.”

“That’s all bullshit. This is—this is—” Quentin flew just hands out again, manic smile crossing his face. “Jesus, this is _bad_.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Eliot said, “we can go sit down and talk about it, okay? Figure it out together. That’s what I’m here for.”

Eliot held out his hand toward the moped, a lifeboat for a friend.

Quentin sighed, shaky and terrifyingly terrified. “I’m not sure you can do anything,” he said, running a hand back through his hair. “But, uh, it’s probably better than nothing. I think I need all the help I can get.”

“Then help I shall.” Eliot took his hand and gave it a squeeze, reassuring and warm. “It’s numero uno in my best friend job description.”

Quentin stared at him for a moment, then burst into a ragged laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he cackled, hand plastered to his forehead. “Goddammit.”

Eliot frowned. “What?”

“Oh, nothing, El,” Quentin whistled low, a sarcastic smile splitting his face. “It’s all good. I’m just so grateful for your _friendship._ So let’s go, _buddy._ ”

His sharp tone stabbed through warm air.

But Eliot wasn’t going to be brought down by a bad mood or a fit of commitmentphobia or whatever the hell was going on—not when bigger things were at stake. So he forced a smile, hopped back on the bike, and flipped on the tiny engine. “Sounds like a plan, pal.”

* * *

_  
  
Eliot didn’t mean for it to keep happening. _

_He truly didn’t, even once he knew what Quentin Coldwater looked like naked. Even once the image of him bathed in flickering light started drifting across his dreamscape most nights, even if he would always remember the feeling of his warm skin under his fingers, the delicious heat of his mouth, the way Quentin had arched his back and called out_ El, El, El, oh god, Eliot _as he came, twice over the lush twinkling hours they spent together in the reading nook._

_It had been incandescent. Some of the best sex of Eliot’s life, even in its fumbling and artless lack of dazzle, in the way Eliot couldn’t stand to be apart from him long enough to try. The whole night had been fueled by nothing but enthusiasm and a crazed charge between their bodies, unlike anything Eliot had ever experienced before. Like nothing he thought could possibly exist without copious sex magic. It shattered the earth and all his preconceptions, in every wondrous, terrifying way._

_But still, at first,_ _Eliot had genuinely tried to dial it back._ _All insane sexual chemistry aside, he actually liked Quentin, as a person, as someone he wanted around his tiny social circle. That was far rarer than a great blowjob—or even a life-changing one—so he had tried to stick to the plan: Friends who had fucked once and never spoke of it again, as God intended._

_It was Quentin who had refused to play along._

_Every time they drank, which was_ _fairly_ _often, Quentin would find a way to curl into Eliot’s lap, nosing at the space behind his ear or biting at his jaw or—in one case—straight up sticking his hands down his trousers, until Eliot fell apart and gave in. Which admittedly…_

_Never took long._

_Over and over, in any dark corner they could find, they kissed and bit and licked and_ touched _each other, until clothes and inhibitions were forgotten like their drinks left on the coffee table. And after a few weeks of these clandestine hookups, they had started migrating to Eliot’s bedroom, for further and far more intensive exploration, brought on by the all-consuming need to fuck each other’s brains out for hours._

_It had been a logistical consideration._

_Nothing more._

_So suffice to say, Eliot never_ meant _for Quentin to start staying in his bed every night. He never meant to share space and showers and cigarettes with one boy and one boy only, had never_ meant _to have flannel shirts thrown about his room and the ear-marked Fillory books on his desk. It had just sort of happened, over time, the more often they fucked and the better friends they became, despite their fucking. And fucking, and fucking, and fucking, and—_

_“Q,” Eliot panted, one hand braced on the bed, the other holding Quentin’s leg up on his shoulder. “Oh, fuck, baby—sweetheart, you feel so—”_

_He thrust into him, mindless and arrhythmic, his stomach pitting and cresting with waves of pleasure. Quentin pulled his leg down, so he could surge up, so he could fuck back into him. He threw his arms around his neck, pulling Eliot down into a messy kiss._

_“I’m close,” Quentin murmured into his lips, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m gonna—without—oh, shit,_ fuck _. Talk to me, get me there, I’m—”_

_“You gonna come without my hand?” Eliot slid his fingers into Quentin’s hair, twisting and tugging the way he liked. “Just my cock? God, you’re perfect.”_

_“El, god,” Quentin fucked harder against him, so much that Eliot barely had to move. “Please.”_

_Eliot grabbed his wrists and pinned them down onto the pillow, rolling his hips more precisely, more purposefully. Quentin gasped, mouth falling slack and skin dappling red._

_“Could fuck you like this forever,” Eliot growled, heedless of his words. “Watching your pretty mouth, feeling your pretty cock—”_

_Quentin moaned, loud and long. “Jesus Christ.”_

_“—all while you take me,” Eliot thrust a few times, hard and proper, to make his point, “in your tight little ass. You’re so hot for me, aren’t you? Tell me.”_

_“Yes, fuck,_ yes _, El,” Quentin breathed, eyes closed, body taut like a live wire. “Always want you.”_

_Eliot pushed in hard, hips locked together. Quentin went high-strung and tense under him, in all the right ways, as Eliot barely kept it together. “There you go, baby. You’re—fuck, you’re so gorgeous like this, Q.”_

_Quentin_ whined, _desperate and broken from the back of his throat, and Eliot lost track of the thread. He had no idea how much longer they stayed like that, fucking each other hard and shallow and urgent, fingers laced together and eyes locked on each other. Everything was skin and heat and_ Quentin. 

_It was almost unbearable, suspended in time, in stardust, in the expanse of the universe. It lasted and lasted, until Q was coming, a glorious clench around his cock, calling out his name and—and Eliot—_

_Eliot was gone._

_The stardust exploded, a burst of dizzy colors and light, and he collapsed onto his Q,_ his _Quentin, his perfect Quentin, babbling nonsense as he pulsed deep inside him. Everything spun and dipped in waves, vision going blurry and vivid in rapid succession, until he found himself with his cheek pressed to Quentin’s racing heart._

_If it weren’t for the mess, Eliot would have fallen asleep._ _He wished he could have fallen asleep._ _Sometimes it was easier to get what he needed from Quentin that way. Easier to curl their bodies together without the chit-chat, without the banter that felt more hollow each time. Falling asleep in Quentin’s arms let him just be. No expectations, no lies. Just contact and comfort._

_But it was three in the afternoon. They both had shit to do. Or, well, Quentin probably did._

_So Eliot peeled off his… friend with a quick peck to his lips, a little_ Hey, that happened, _and huffed a tiny laugh at Q’s still-blissed out face and closed eyes. He did a clean up spell, sat up, and lit a cigarette, settled back into his throne of pillows._

_Quentin groaned and flopped over onto his side, burying his face in Eliot’s stomach. “Oh my god, what the fuck?”_

_“Can you be more specific?” Eliot inhaled a long drag, sliding his free hand into the sweat-damp strands of Quentin’s hair._

_“Uh, I thought that was an urban legend.”_

_Eliot laughed, “Seriously?”_

_Quentin cocked an eye up at him from, along with the edge of his grin, before flipping around to stare up at the ceiling. He settled into the cradle of Eliot’s stomach, holding out his hand in a silent request for the cigarette. Eliot obliged._

_“I mean, I’d seen it in porn before,” Quentin said, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “But that was, like,_ wow _.”_

_“Mind if I use that as a pull quote?”_

_Quentin flicked a bit of annoyed ash his way, which Eliot quickly caught with his mind and sent over to the ashtray where it belonged. He took back the cigarette as punishment._

_“Novel experiences are what we strive for here at Waugh and Associates,” Eliot continued, keeping his voice airy. “We should host an honorary soirée. Baby’s first time coming untouched.”_

_“You joke, but I think Margo would actually throw that party.”_

_“It’d be the fete of the century.” Eliot grinned and handed the cigarette back to Q. “Do you have class now?”_

_(Eliot knew he did.)_

_“Yeah, uh, Intro to Natural Metaphysics.” Quentin rolled his eyes, fairly. “Thinking about ditching.”_

_“Why, Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot chastised, delighted. “I knew I’d make a miscreant out of you yet.”_

_“Hate to break it to you,” Quentin said, blowing smoke right in his face. “But that’s been a work in progress for years.”_

_“If you say so.”_

_“I only_ look _innocent.”_

_God, he was cute. Eliot didn’t bother to tamp down his charmed smile, turning it expertly into mischief. “Mhmm. What’s the baddest_ _thing Quentin Coldwater has ever done then?”_

_“I don’t know,” Quentin said, lifting his brows in a little pop of defiance. “I’ve done so many bad things, it’s hard to pick.”_

_Eliot plucked the cigarette out of his hand. “Uh-huh.”_

_“Okay, no, uh, I’ve got one,” Quentin said, sitting up, mission activated. He curled next to Eliot’s hip, looking him straight on. “So I spent a summer doing Junior Cowboy Camp and—”_

_“Oh my_ god _.”_

_“—and I stole a horse.” Quentin lifted his chin proudly. “In the middle of the night.”_

_Eliot stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray by the bed, smile hurting his cheeks. “To sell on the black market?”_

_“Fine, I_ borrowed _a horse.”_

_“Why the fuck—?”_

_“The camp was in the middle of bumfuck Montana,” Quentin shrugged, “and since I was a New York metro area kid, pretty much the only appeal was seeing the stars.”_

_“Criminal mastermind,” Eliot said, trying to cover up that familiar flutter in his chest. Quentin flipped him off, but fixed his eyes upward, distant and thoughtful. He drew his lower lip between his teeth, like he was unsure what to say for himself._

_“It had—uh, it just been such a fucking shitty year with my hospitalization and therapy and my fucking mother, so it was, like, the_ one thing _I had promised myself I would do, that would prove that I was—that I was alive, you know? It was stupid, but it mattered to me in that fucked up teenaged brain kinda way. But—ah, then the ambient light from the ranch made it impossible, which—god, that pissed me off. I was so mad, like so fucking sullen over it, trapped in my own—um, you know how I get.”_

_Eliot hated that he did._

_“And one night,” Quentin chuckled, turning his face away, “I just got sick of my own shit. I figured, either I had to fuck off and resign myself to_ myself _or I had to fucking do something about it. So after everyone was asleep, I snuck into the stables, saddled up a horse just like they taught me, and went off to find the Milky Way.”_

_Lifting a hand in the air, Quentin laughed again, a small sad thing, pointed at his younger self.  
_

_Eliot couldn’t_ breathe _._

_His chest was tight and tingling and heavy, like his rib cage was splitting in two, like his heart was pushing through his bones and muscle and skin, trying to crawl its way into Q’s beautiful hands._

_“Did you get to see them?” Eliot’s throat trembled. He was pathetic. “The stars?”_

_“Um, yeah.” Quentin lifted his eyes to search Eliot’s cracked open face. “Yeah, I did. I found a clearing, a few miles away, and stargazed all night. I even did a journal with the constellations I saw. It felt like I had found Fillory. Or maybe magic. I don’t know.”_

_The room was closing in on them._

_Eliot swallowed roughly, fingers tightening along the colorful silk of his blankets, mind_ screaming _at him to look away, to run away, to_ get the hell away _from Quentin and his giant, beautiful eyes. He couldn’t breathe._

I watched the stars all the time when I was a kid, in cornfields and soy fields and open dirt roads. Part of me needed them, but most of the time I hated them. Hated how they were so far away, so distant, like nothing I could ever touch, like nothing my life would ever be. But maybe if I had seen them with someone like you, Q, I would have—

_Eliot reached over to his nightstand and pulled his flask to his lips. He chugged, the sweet-stringent taste of gin blooming in his mouth and burning down his throat. The weight of Quentin’s gaze was palpable and suffocating and—and—and—_

_“Very well, bad boy achievement unlocked.” Words flew out his mouth, too quick, too manic. “Anyway, on another note, if you’re blowing off class and I’m of course blowing off class, per usual, then what sort of mischief shall we—”_

_“Can I ask you something?”_

_In his soft, sincere way, Quentin threw a sledgehammer right at the balloon of escape. It squealed back down to earth, hissing and wailing its defeat. F_ _eeling not unlike a trapped animal, Eliot ran his tongue across his teeth. “Sure.”_

_Quentin grabbed the edge of the blanket and very courteously covered up his dick for whatever serious conversation they were about to have._

_“I guess, I mean, I feel like we’ve been doing this for awhile now?” Quentin pushed his hair back and sucked a breath deep into his lungs. “But we’ve never—we’ve never really taken the time to talk about it. Or what it means.”_

_Eliot lit another cigarette. Obviously._

_“Talk is cheap.”_

_“I know,” Quentin said quickly. He frowned. “Well, I guess? Or, well, I don’t—I’m not actually sure how that expression is—it doesn’t seem relevant?”_

_Smoke hissed through Eliot’s teeth. “What are you getting at, Q?”_

_“What is this to you?”_

_Quentin gave nothing away in his tone. It almost made Eliot laugh, since Quentin always wore his heart on his fucking sleeve up until_ now, _of all times, for the first time in all the long, tangled up, feverish few months he’d known him. So Eliot had no idea if he was asking because he hoped for something or because he was dreading what Eliot seemed to feel. What Eliot_ did _feel, not that it was any of Quentin’s goddamn business._

_“We’re friends,” Eliot said slowly, before tacking on a shrug. “Friends who know how to make each other feel good.”_

_Those were the facts. If Quentin in any way disagreed with those facts, he could speak now or forever hold his peace._

_“Right,” Quentin agreed, with a short nod. “No, I know—but it’s, like, we are kind of, uh—like, I guess I don’t know if you’re. Um. Are you doing this with anyone else?”_

_Eliot was not doing this with anyone else. He and Quentin fucked every single day, often more than once a day. He wasn’t sure when Quentin thought it was_ physically possible _for him to be doing this with anyone else, unless he was presuming Eliot was bringing boys up to his room whenever Q was in class. Which, you know,_ sure, _Eliot was a renowned slut, but that was still a bit—_

_“If the opportunity arises.” Eliot smoked, tugging his lips down disinterestedly. “Why not?”_

_“Right.”_

_Or maybe Quentin wasn’t thinking about Eliot’s prospects at all. Maybe he was still thinking about his own shot at Alice Quinn, his little bitchy blonde nerdy bespeckled dream girl, the one who had treated him like shit every step of the way, only for Q to keep diving back in for more. He and Alice had stopped talking shortly after Quentin had refused to help her summon her niffin brother, on the sage advice of one Julia Wicker. Who, incidentally, Quentin had also admitted to having been “in love with” since childhood._

_Busy boy._

_That admission came around the same time that Alice departed the picture, which was around the same time that Quentin had started fucking Eliot more and more, until he had practically moved into his room and practically shared a_ life _with him, almost like it was real, almost like it was where he wanted to be. But Eliot wasn’t stupid. He knew when he wasn’t someone’s first choice. Or their second._

_“Deal’s the same for you, of course,” Eliot said, elbowing Quentin good-naturedly. Because they were friends. Friends teased each other about shit like that. It was healthy._

_“Sure, yeah,” Quentin said, laughing sharp and hard. “With all my_ opportunities. _”_

_There it was._

_“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry.” Eliot wrapped an arm around Quentin, tugging him into his side, cigarette dangling next to his shoulder. “Brakebills South will treat you well. Always does.”_

_Quentin dipped his mouth over, smoking from the cigarette Eliot held out prone for him. “What’s Brakebills South?”_

_“It’s our second campus in Antarctica, where you’ll go after the Trials,” Eliot murmured, captivated by the feel of Quentin’s jaw against his palm. “It’s a whole thing.”_

_“Shit.” Quentin flopped backward, sputtering out his lips and a few puffs of smoke. “That’s coming up? When?”_

_Eliot chuckled, nosing at his temple. When they were in bed, this was his. “I’ve already broken too many rules for you, Q.” He kissed his cheek. “Can’t give away all the trade secrets.”_

_“I mean, you could. You’re just choosing not to.”_

_“Elder prerogative.” He smiled and nipped at the shell of his ear, drawing out a grumble from his favorite boy. And Eliot was secretly a softie, so— “You’ll be there for a few weeks, into our winter break.”_

_Quentin let out a choked little laugh. “Wait, I don’t get a winter break? That’s bullshit.”_

_“You’ll get a week or so after South.”_

_“Uh, still bullshit. This has been the single most stressful time of my—fuck.”_

_“Poor baby.”_

_“You’re making fun of me, but I deserve a real fucking break,” Quentin grumped. “So, fucking—okay, so what’ll you do while we’re all freezing our nuts off? Relax on a goddamn island?”_

_Eliot swallowed. “Yeah, actually. Ibiza with Margo.”_

_The last time he and Quentin had talked about Ibiza, they hadn’t been fucking yet. Not that it mattered. Clearly it didn’t matter. But Encanto Oculto was far outside of the realm of hypothetical. Arising opportunities were an absolute given, so to speak. Multiple times over. Often at once._

_“Right,” Quentin breathed out again. “Right. Of course, you mentioned. I just—sorry, I forgot. That’s, um, cool. I’m sure you’ll have fun.”_

_Eliot forced a smile. “Always do.”_

_Quentin returned the smile, closed-lipped and slightly strained around the edges, in a way Eliot couldn’t quite read. But Quentin didn’t say anything more, just rested his head in the crook of his neck. Eliot pressed his lips to his hair, friendly and familiar._

_They smoked in silence for a long time._


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

“But you know what nobody ever knew?  
My heart was constantly broken. _Constantly_.  
I mean, and how could they?

I never let them see it.”

— **Isn’t It Romantic?**

* * *

  
  


Eliot took a sip of his drink.

It tasted like ash.

He stretched his arm across the length of his favorite booth and stared down hard at his favorite face. Henry’s Pub was bustling with its usual life and laughter, but all Eliot could hear was a frantic buzzing and chirping, the discordant circus music of nightmares. It rattled his teeth and thumped his blood too fast, his vision narrowed into a black tunnel before him.

Their favorite neighborhood bar was a cozy spot down the street from the office, the perfect respite from a hard day’s work. Their booth was in the far back corner, made of worn-in green leather and dark wood. Maybe it was nothing special from the outside, but the small space had borne countless witness to their mundanities and heartaches, their triumphs and tribulations. Evenings and hours and seasons all blurred together, a potent mix of well-crafted cocktails, moody jukebox music, the twinkle of string lights overhead, and the best company in the world.

Usually, Eliot could have lived there, could have wrapped himself in the essence of the pub like a blanket, nestled in its comfort for all eternity. Usually, when he was at Henry’s, the world was warmer. Softer. Everything else fell away, leaving only the clink of glasses, a rousing game of darts, and precious time with Quentin, without distractions of either the architectural or girlfriendal varieties. Usually, the two of them would settle back, relax, and shoot the shit over two piña coladas. Two usually turned to four, then sometimes six between them. They’d talk about everything and laugh about nothing, a tiny low-lit pocket of time, just for them.

—But right now, the conversation was a _little_ different than usual.

“Say it one more time.”

“I’m a 23-year-old grad student,” Quentin repeated, unblinking and unflinching. “I’m stuck in some kind of alternate dimension. You might be too.”

Eliot nodded, and nodded, and nodded. He ripped a cocktail napkin into tiny slivers. “And the reason you’re not completely freaking out about this, ah, _revelation_ is because—”

“Because this shit happens in my world all the time.” Quentin took a long sip of his scotch, not his usual order. “I’m a Magician.”

“Not like David Copperfield.”

“No.”

“Or Harry Potter.”

“Closer to Harry Potter,” Quentin said reluctantly, sticking his tongue out. “But no, it’s a lot more—like, uh, there’s a lot of math? And no wands or anything.”

“Right.” Eliot flashed a wide grin. “Wands would be _crazy_.”

“Fuck you, I’m not crazy.” Quentin rolled his eyes, the words flying out with ease, like it was something they said to each other often. Or ever.

“Someone’s been watching HBO,” Eliot said, swallowing down an acrid taste, aiming to keep things light. Airy, breezy, lemon squeezy.

Quentin contorted his face for a second, maybe bemused, and sighed. “I’m not crazy. I mean, I’m not _happy_ , but it’s manageable. It’s exactly what happened to Julia. Well, not exactly, since it’s not—there’s too many consistencies in the illusion for it to be a Scarlatti Web. Also, like, just the fact that I can say Scarlatti Web means it’s not one, right?”

”So what,” Eliot took a deep breath, “you think this is all a dream or something?”

Quentin tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe. Probably not. But it might be—like, one of those dreams where I know I’m dreaming. With a magical puzzle to wake up?”

Holy shit. “And what exactly made you realize you were... dreaming?”

“Uh, magic? One of my friends trying to wake me up on the other side? Someone playing _Non, je ne regrette rien?_ “ Quentin shrugged, though he wouldn’t meet Eliot’s eyes. “Who knows. Only thing that matters is getting the fuck out as soon as possible.”

He tugged his legs up onto the seat, twisting and contorting the limbs under his butt. His elbow landed hard on the table and he propped his head up, fingers tangled in his hair. 

“I think I, uh, just need to retrace my steps, but that’s kinda hard considering I got fucking plastered last night after—” The muscle in his jaw popped and his lashes fluttered down to his cheekbones. “Um, you know, after everything. So my memory is kind of fuzzy.”

“Look, Q,” Eliot said, pushing his glass to the side. “I’m not saying you’re not ‘some pig—’”

“ _Scarlatti_ Web.”

“—or Leonardo DiCaprio, or whatever you want to be. But you have to hear how this sounds, no? One second, you’re about to run off into the sunset with Alice after quitting your job, and now you’re talking about spells and magic and just blatantly lying about your age—”

“I have premature frown lines.”

“—and I think it all comes down to the fact that you’ve never been the best with commitment,” Eliot finished, as gently as possible. “So, to me, all of this makes sense, as a panic response. A weird one, but—”

“Wait, I’m sorry, you’re saying _I_ have commitment issues?” Quentin sipped from his glass, snorting loud. “Unbelievable.”

Eliot frowned. “You said it yourself, you’re always running to find happiness in different—”

Quentin held his drink up to the light. “Uh, what the fuck is with this watered down shit? How many drinks do you have to have here before you get drunk? ‘Cause if I’m gonna have this conversation with Mirror Eliot, I’d like to be drunk.”

“I want to help you,” Eliot said, ignoring another onset of hurt feelings, reaching across the table to take his hand. “I want to help you get past... whatever this is, so you can reset and restart. You know I want things to work out with you and Alice more than anyone. It’s what you deserve.”

What Eliot really meant was that there was no one who wanted Quentin to be happy more than him. There was no one who believed Quentin deserved happiness—real happiness, lasting happiness—more than Eliot. In fact, there was no greater truth in all the universe. Quentin had to know that, if nothing else.

But Quentin just muffled a laugh in his lips, an unattractive snort-honk sound.

“Um, okay.” He ran his fingers across his mouth, like he could hide the smile there. “Yeah, I mean, that’s total bullshit, but I appreciate the effort.”

Eliot blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There is no world, not even in my brain or in a spell dimension or whatever the fuck this is, that any version of Eliot Waugh gives a shit if things work out with me and Alice. ”

“Of course I give a—” Eliot felt a knot form in the center of his chest, fused to his rib cage. “Of course I care.”

"Right, because you just _love_ sharing your toys.”

“My _toys_?”

Quentin glared from under his lashes, one point of his lip snarling up, unyielding from his charge. The barb unfurled something fierce in Eliot, something that snapped like a bright red glowstick, something he didn’t recognize. His hand shook as he reached for his drink and let the sugar-sweet flavors rest flat on his tongue. Their eyes never parted, an unfamiliar energy between them. Eliot wasn't sure if he wanted to storm away from whoever the hell this stranger was or crash their mouths together hard, to shut him the hell up until he regained his sense. 

Thankfully, Quentin broke first, taking both options away from him.

“Uh, okay, I’m gonna—” He blew air out his cheeks, hand pushing back his hair. “So you’re obviously not Eliot, not really. You might be _you_ , literally, but if so, you’re under a side effect of the spell or something. But I’m gonna talk to you like you‘re actually him from now on, okay?”

“What?” Eliot sucked in a breath, trying to offset the anxiety grabbing at his heart. “What does that mean? What do you mean I’m not _really_ Eliot?”

Quentin shook his head, gulping down too much scotch at once. “Talking to Eliot helps me process. It—it always helps me process. I mean, shit, I’ve pretended to talk to invisible Eliots before so this isn’t _crazy_ , it’s even better.” 

“Quentin.”

“So, like—when Kady put Jules under the Scarlatti Web, for that hedge witch, Maria or whatever,” Quentin said, tapping his hands along the table. “What do we remember about that? I know it, uh, it lasted two days, almost 48 hours exactly, until Penny could lead her out. But Julia said it felt longer. Like, way longer.”

Eliot felt like he was going to choke on his own tongue. “ _Quentin_.”

“But this really is different from a Scarlatti Web. Julia said that that the whole ‘trapped in your mind’ thing was more like a—a—a collage, like everything still looked like where she was physically, because it bled through. But none of this looks anything like the dean’s office or the Cottage, it’s—”

Quentin twisted in his seat and scanned the room. The golden light shone across the happy patrons. The bartender threw a bottle up in the air and caught it behind his back, bowing to a round of applause. Friends lifted their glasses in a toast, a woman slapped a man across the face, and a small gaggle of college girls danced near the jukebox.

Quentin frowned. “It’s like a movie set.”

“Q,” Eliot said softly. “This is Henry’s. We come here every day.”

“I quit my job.” Quentin snapped his fingers three times. “To go declare my feelings to a girl at the top of the Empire State Building. That’s, like, that’s—a thing right? Like, uh, _Sleepless in Seattle_? You hate that one because you think Tom Hanks is a serial killer, but—”

Tom Hanks probably did have bodies buried under his estate foundations, but that was neither here nor there. “Quentin.”

“And Margo is my boss, but she’s not Margo. She’s, like, a total bitch. I mean, Margo’s always a bitch, but not like—like, this Margo is the human embodiment of a hostile work environment and she wears big furs year-round. Unironically.” Quentin snapped his fingers again. “And this weekend is my best friend’s wedding, and you’re inexplicably planning it, and you ride a moped, and you wear lots of pink, and you say things like, _There’s a fire sale in my bedroom, all clothes 100% off._ Unironically.”

Eliot bit his tongue. “I mean, a little ironically.”

“And New York is gorgeous and there are cupcake shops everywhere and—and—and everyone wears pastels.” Quentin stared down at his work shirt and plucked at it. “I’m fucking wearing pastels. And my apartment is huge and I don’t think I own a single book? But I have a bullshit backstory about being unlucky in love, which—uh, I am, but not like this, not in a _cute_ way, and—”

He stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth beside the table.

“Holy shit,” Quentin breathed out. “Holy shit, this is—”

“Honey." Eliot tried to reach for him, silently begging him to stop. "I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, but—”

“This is a _romantic comedy_.”

Eliot jolted to an unnatural stillness. An electric current raced down his arms, flashes of strange dreams and taunting fantasies glitching out in front of his eyes. He took a few halting breaths, gooseflesh raising on his neck and straightening his spine.

“Wait," Eliot swallowed, chest painfully tight. "What?”

“I’m stuck in a romantic comedy,” Quentin said again. “There’s no other explanation.”

“As in—” Eliot blinked “—the film genre?”

Quentin nodded quickly. “This whole thing has all the hallmarks of a by-the-number romantic comedy. Shit, I should have seen it right away.”

“Hallmarks?” Eliot massaged his temples, mostly knowing he shouldn’t encourage this insanity, but feeling like if he couldn’t stop the train from careening off the tracks, he should at least go down with it. His stomach tangled in impenetrable knots.

Quentin pointed a quick finger to the window. “New York is my favorite city, but that is not New York. That is a starry-eyed midwestern girl’s _idea_ of New York.”

The edge of Eliot’s eye twitched. “Fair to say I don’t follow.”

“Then there’s me,” Quentin laughed, frantically waving his hand up and down his body. “This is—I am not _this._ I am—I am not a fucking successful architect who's, like, vaguely famous? How am I famous?”

Eliot was dizzy. Delirious. “You were on the cover of _Architecture Quarterly_ ’s Most Eligible Bachelors spring special edition. Skyrocketed both your career and your love life.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, no.” Quentin shook his head hard, eyes practically vibrating in their intensity. “I’m a 23-year-old grad student.”

“Is this an quarter-to-midlife crisis thing?” Eliot squinted at him, taking in his rumpled form. Q looked exhausted and not a little insane, but handsome as ever. “Sweetheart, it’s fine. You’re thirty, flirty, and thriving.”

“First of all, don’t fucking call me that. Second, that’s _literally_ a line from a romantic comedy you made me watch. Twice.”

Cold fear gripped Eliot’s stomach again. “That never happened, Q.”

“Yeah, it did.” Quentin clenched his jaw. “Spoiler alert? That movie made no goddamn sense, just like this world makes no goddamn sense.”

“Okay,” Eliot laughed, shaking his head one last time. “Well, okay, this is obviously a stress reaction. I know things have been intense lately. Work has been super busy and—” 

“Right, yeah, I’ve been so busy with being an _architect._ ” Quentin did air quotes around his profession. “I’ve been doing too much _architecture.”_

Eliot crossed his arms. “You work nonstop.”

Quentin pulled out his phone and started tapping away on the touchscreen. “Sure, I work _so_ hard. You know, between getting coffee with you, joking around the office with you, going to happy hour every day at 5 on the dot, with you—”

“You worked until 7 last night,” Eliot snapped, annoyed for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on. “You put your heart and soul into the big presentation and then you just walked away like it was nothing.”

“—not to mention all the _wacky_ shenanigans,” Quentin continued, shaking his free hand like a sparkler without looking up from his phone. “But I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually, uh, done any actual shit with actual building design.”

“You are the hardest working person I know,” Eliot said, genuinely alarmed. “Quentin, I think you need to—”

“What’s the flexural strength of steel?”

Quentin looked up from his phone, head tilted. He lips pursed and his eyes glittered, making him look _smug._ Eliot ran his tongue across his teeth, all his fear calcifying into something bitter and annoyed.

He took a slow sip of his drink. Frowned. “The what?”

“The modulus of rupture for steel beams.” Quentin fluttered his lashes, long and beautiful and obnoxious. “What is it?”

Eliot sighed, to project his disinterest in the game. “I have no idea. Now, if you don’t mind, can we please get back to—?”

“How does flexural strength differ from tensile strength?”

“Ah, but if I don’t know what the first thing is,” Eliot said lightly, rolling his drink between his hands, “how can I possibly compare it to something else I don’t know?”

Quentin smirked. “On what kind of structure would you apply an entasis and how?”

The fear boiled back up as Eliot squinted at him, searching in earnest for evidence of head trauma. “Okay, enough,” he said, sharp and terse. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the basic shit _all architects know_ , Eliot. At least according to Google. Which, uh, by the way—” He wagged his phone “—Google still works. In case you were wondering.”

The vein on the side of Eliot’s head pulsed. “I was not.” 

“Hard to put a spell on the internet, since it’s constantly changing. Too many variables,” Quentin explained, matter-of-fact and out of his mind. “But it also means I can read about and maybe download some popular rom coms to try to figure out how to get the fuck out of here. Which, luckily, it’s, uh, it’s a pretty basic story structure, right? So I have a few working theories off the bat, but I want to make sure I have a solid foundation. Which means my first point of exploration has gotta be _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , right? That’s the—that’s the genesis of the genre, right?”

”Right,” Eliot said flatly. Why not.

“Right, okay. So we start in Athens, in Ancient Greece, and open on the wedding of Theseus the Duke and Hippolyta the Amazon Queen, written in 1598 or so, which was considered Shakespeare’s middle period or his lyrical period. Or wait, was it 1596? Shit, uh, hold on, let me check that...”

Quentin pecked at his phone, quickly corrected his facts (“Ah, most likely written sometime between 1595 and 1596, though no one’s totally sure”), and then launched into a remarkably long explainer of the lineage from Shakespeare to Austen to the development of 1934’s _It Happened One Night._ As he rambled without so much as a breath, Quentin built out his history lesson by jumping all around various links on Wikipedia and explicating at great length his own analysis of classic texts, which he apparently knew _way_ more about than he’d ever let on before.

It was almost endearing, almost fascinating, to watch Quentin come alive, to hear him talk about something that seemed to interest him, despite all his derisive asides (“I mean, let’s be real, Austen’s genius came from her social satire, not the romance writing per se, but y’know, the masses want what they want.”) But while Q’s demeanor grew brighter and more engaged, Eliot found himself all the more exhausted and not a little terrified.

He just—

He had no idea what to do.

Quentin was still talking and talking, hands gesticulating everywhere, sharp and unfamiliar. His knuckles were hunched around nothing and his wrists circled in the air, while he moved to the modern age, saying things like _manic pixie dream girl_ and _meet cute_ and _heteronormative convention_ , making Eliot’s head spin all the while. Quentin talked about how romantic comedies all followed a familiar narrative structure and how the end goal was always a happily ever after, between the main boy and the main girl.

“Clearly, Alice wasn’t actually the main girl. Which makes sense. Because, like, in the real world—you know, yes, have I had complicated feelings for her? Of course. She’s gorgeous and scary smart and, like, hard to please and brilliant and so good at magic, in a way I will _never_ be.”

Eliot’s mind raced with ways to explain any of this. A carbon monoxide leak in his apartment? Mold spores in the vents? Maybe he had eaten some of that weird old canned tuna from the office pantry?

“So obviously, my subconscious has to reckon with that over and over again, because I’m _me_ and I can never leave shit well enough alone. So it makes sense that in this insane world, I would think that I want her because she’s everything I convinced myself that I wanted for years, at least until I realized—”

Quentin closed his eyes and shook his head.

“It—that doesn’t matter. Point is, it makes sense,” he said again, quieter. “It _makes sense_ because what happened with Alice here is a lot like what happened with Alice there. Like, uh, at South. I mean, god, she was _not_ happy, but it—it solidified things for me. It gave me clarity, actual clarity, for once in my life. Not that it was worth a shit beyond that, but you know, it—it makes sense. That part makes sense, even if it’s a little redundant. But the rest of this whole thing—doesn’t make sense. At all.”

Eliot scratched at his brow. “You can say that again, Q.”

Quentin bit his lip, wide and wild eyes staring at Eliot without blinking. “So I just need to figure out what this goddamn spell wants from me. And if none of my ideas work, then I’m cutting the shit and going to the upstate Bermuda Triangle and making my way past whatever illusion is covering Brakebills if it’s the last thing I do.”

—Every hair on Eliot’s arm stood on end.

_Fuck Brakebills South._

_It was the worst place on the planet. It was cold and dreary, all grays and whites and fluorescent blue. Antarctica was uninhabited for a reason, Mayakovsky was the shittiest human on the planet, and now, it had taken Quentin away, for three whole weeks._

_Rumor had it that South was a punishment for the good professor, for fucking a student or some other cliche shit. But it had never felt more like torture designed just for Eliot Waugh, as he had stood on the Cottage patio, clock ticking down to the first years’ return._

_Not that Eliot had waited by the portal, exactly. He wasn’t_ that _pathetic. But if he had been lounging about the edge of the lawn, making cocktails on a tiny bar and wearing an outfit he knew Q liked and letting the sunlight shine off his particularly buoyant curls, all within_ sight _of the portal, well, that was just good luck._

 _Most Brakebills kids had shitty home lives—or, like Eliot, non-existent home lives—so campus was still filled to the brim with life, even without Bambi around to quell the constant itchy irritation of other people. Despite his begging her to return with him, she had opted to stay in Ibiza with an admittedly very hot conceptual artist, sending Eliot home with nothing but a long kiss and a spiked barb of, “I can’t believe you’re fucking ditching me for a boy,” as though that wasn’t exactly what_ she _was going and even though he had been_ very _clear that he was going back to Brakebills because Ibiza had ended up being tragically_ boring _, which the worst accusation he could possibly lodge at an orgy. It had nothing to do with_ Quentin _._

 _—That would be_ stupid _._

 _So Eliot had forced himself to have fun. He got high with Josh Hoberman. He perfected his Gin Fizz recipe. He tried to do some schoolwork; promptly lit said schoolwork on fire. He flirted with the few queer or flexible boys scattered about campus; promptly deemed them all far too boring to fuck. Or too gangly, too sleek, too tall, too—whatever. He played contraband Mario Kart with Josh Hoberman. He made a cinnamon soufflé. He ordered Todd around, on menial tasks, for the shits and giggles of it. In short, he_ _had fun._ _So much fun._

_Quentin coming back was just a bonus._

_As he smoked a twig of rosemary for garnish, Eliot exhaled, releasing a bit of odd nervous energy through his limbs. He certainly hoped things would be the same between him and Q after South, that Quentin hadn’t fallen ass-over-tits for some girl while he was there. But even if he had, that would be okay. Probably for the best, since Quentin seemed to want that. It would still be good to see him, since they were friends. Good friends, who enjoyed each other’s company. At worst, they could have a couple of cocktails, shoot the shit, and Eliot would actually get to talk to someone worth talking to._

_And at best—_

_Right on time, Quentin stumbled out the doorway and Eliot’s heart caught in his throat for twice over. First, because Quentin was still just as gorgeous as he remembered. Even with particularly frazzled and mussed hair, even in the world’s last flattering white sweatsuit uniform, even with pallid skin that hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, Quentin was still fucking_ gorgeous.

_But the second reason Eliot couldn’t find his breath was because Quentin walked out the portal while talking quietly to Alice Quinn._

_Alice was sans owl glasses, yet somehow more wide-eyed. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and ducked her head, a blush crawling up her cheeks. The twig of rosemary crunched and disintegrated between Eliot’s clenched fingers when Quentin followed her, angling in close as they whispered softly between them. After a long moment of inaudible yet clearly tender words, Quentin slowly wrapped his arms around her in a hug, and Alice returned it—tits pressed to his chest—and Eliot swallowed down an onrush of bitterness._

_How sweet._

_Eliot almost packed his shit up to go inside, to try to figure out a way back to Ibiza, back to Margo, when a strangled little sound broke across the green lawn. “Holy shit,_ Eliot?”

_Quentin dropped his arms to his side, slack-jawed and bug-eyed. Next to him, Alice put her on her best sour lemon face and crossed her arms tight across her aforementioned tits. Eliot squared his shoulders, squinted his eyes as though he was focusing on the sight before him, and let out his very best loud laugh._

_”Quentin!” Eliot said, lifting an arm in the air. “Hey kiddo, I didn’t know you were back today.”_

_Quentin shook his head, trudging quickly through the grass, with little Alice on his heels. “What are you doing here? I thought—”_

_“Ugh,” Eliot said tetchily, waving his hand in the air. “Encanto was more like Encant-no. Honestly, I had more erotic experiences when I was twelve and searching for ‘muscle men’ on Yahoo images. Who wants a cocktail?”_

_If something flickered behind Quentin’s eyes, Eliot certainly didn’t notice. He smiled back and forth between the first years, ever an attentive host._

_Alice jutted her strong chin up, piercing blue eyes meeting his directly._ _”Yes, please.“_

 _Quentin shrugged._ _”Yeah, uh,” he said, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Any booze other than Mayakovsky’s high-proof grain shit sounds good.”_

_”Aw,” Eliot said, pouring the drinks into two frosted martini glasses, letting their eye contact linger. “Poor baby.”_

_That time, when Quentin’s eyes flickered, Eliot definitely noticed._

_But after the initial greetings, things went a little awkward, what with Alice refusing to speak directly to Eliot, yet clinging to Q like he was the only person she knew in the whole goddamn world. It was the usual passive-aggressive bullshit; her specialty, from what he could tell. But once she got the goddamn hint and finally fucked off, the world got a little smaller, a little hazier, and so much warmer._

_“So, uh, hey,” Quentin shrugged and stepped forward, hesitant fingers sliding against the edge of Eliot’s vest. “I’m surprised to see you.”_

_Eliot smiled down at him. “Good surprise?”_

_”Yeah,” Quentin said, voice as small as his smile. “Good surprise.”_

_”Well, that’s good,” Eliot murmured, sliding his hands down to hold onto Quentin’s hips. “It’s good to see you too.”_

_“Oh,” Quentin breathed out, head rocking back as Eliot ran the tip of his nose up his throat in a line. “Oh, that’s—uh, that’s good. Though I guess I’m sorry Spain was such a—”_

_Eliot cut Quentin off by tugging him in by the ass and kissing him breathless. Quentin whimpered against his lips, pushing up needily, and all talk disappeared._ _Which was good, because Eliot really didn’t want to talk about Ibiza._

 _Ibiza had been—embarrassing. It had destroyed his entire sense of self and it sure as_ fuck _wasn’t worth talking about. And if Eliot talked about Spain, that meant he would have to ask about Antarctica and—and Eliot didn’t care about Antarctica, he didn’t care what happened in Antarctica,_ he didn’t want to know _what had happened in Antarctica. They hadn’t promised each other anything, but Quentin was here, now, and all Eliot wanted was_ Quentin _. Here. Now._

 _“Fuck, I missed this,” Quentin said between biting, desperate kisses as Eliot backed him up toward the Cottage. They moved around the fire pit, under the awning, up onto the patio. He pushed his hands up and under his tight white sweatshirt, needing to feel his skin, needing him_ naked, _right the fuck now._

_But when Eliot picked the eager Quentin up and pushed against the wall, his head thunked on the brick, the sound vibrating through Eliot’s mouth. Panting, Eliot pulled away, not far from his lips, because he couldn’t bear it otherwise._

_“Shit, sorry,” Eliot said, pressing in to kiss him in apology, then again to show him how very sorry he was. “You okay?”_

_Quentin didn’t say anything, just tightened his legs around Eliot and bucked his hips once, so his hard cock—tragically trapped in polyester—rocked against his own. Eliot groaned and captured his face between both hands, pushing him back to kiss him again._

_“El,” Quentin gasped, as Eliot bit down his jaw, nothing gentle. “Oh, god. Hey, uh, we should—we should head inside, right?”_

_“Why?” Eliot growled, bracing his hands on the wall, sucking a mark at his throat. Quentin threw his arms around his neck and groaned, falling against him, trapped between the house and his body._

_“Because, like—you know.” Quentin swallowed, the movement a hard push-pull against Eliot’s lips. “Uh, bed? We should probably go to—”_

_“I want everyone to know I’m fucking the prettiest boy at Brakebills,” Eliot whispered hotly in his ear. “I want everyone to_ see me _fuck the prettiest boy at Brakebills.”_

_“Fucking Christ, Eliot.”_

_Quentin’s eyes were closed, infinite eyelashes dancing helplessly on his cheeks, right above his line of dusky dark stubble. His hair was flying out, catching on all the little knicks and grooves of the brick, kiss-slicked mouth parted and open. Eliot looked at him in awe, for just a moment, letting himself feel the bursting light from the electric tangle that was his heart. Q always relished in pleasure with abandon, even though the rest of the time, he was always so sad, so brittle, like dried bone. But when they were together, it didn’t matter, he still gave himself with everything, every time. It was remarkable and_ stunning _and Eliot was—_

 _His heart was_ gone.

 _Eliot felt untethered from the earth, and he had never felt like this about a boy in his entire life. He was fucked. He was so goddamn_ fucked _. Quentin was in his arms, kissing him like he'd die if he stopped, crawling up his body, sliding his cock against his, and it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough._

_“Bed,” Eliot whispered. He kissed the hinge of Quentin’s jaw delicately. “Let’s—yeah, you’re right. Let’s go to bed.”_

—Eliot sucked air back into his lungs.

He scrambled his hands around the table, like he could find steady ground there, like it could hold his bones together. His vision swimming back to the bar, chest turned inside out, breath labored and harsh, as a burst of hot white pain slashed through his skull.

“Whoa, hey, what just happened?” A slide of suit fabric along the leather booth and Quentin’s hands were on his knees, breath warm by his ear. “Baby—um, I mean, El. _Eliot._ Sorry, but is it—are you here?”

Eliot forced his eyes open, slow as molasses, to find Q sitting right next to him, devastating eyes searching his face. The fear Eliot felt turned inward, strangling his lungs, and his hands went numb. He had no idea what the hell that had been, but it was nothing good.

Nothing he should indulge.

“I think—” He let out a shallow exhale and stared down at the hands on his knees, gentle and strong, _touching_ him. “Ah, I’m doing a juice cleanse. Just a little lightheaded. Sorry.”

Quentin’s face fell at the obvious lie and Eliot wanted to grab it back, would have done anything to soothe the crestfallen shadow that had replaced the brief shine of hope. But he—god, Eliot had no idea what else to say. He couldn’t add fuel to this fire. Quentin would thank him for that, one day.

“It was a longshot, but I thought maybe—” Quentin trailed off quietly. He ran his hand through his hair and scowled. “Fucking short hair. Shit. Okay. Um.”

Quentin bit his lip, undulating his breath in his cheek like an engine. “Okay, so if this is a romantic comedy, then I think... I need to figure out who the real ‘main’ girl is, according to the structure of the world. Like, that sucks and it’s shitty, but it’s the way it works.” He looked down at his fingers, tracing a line around his thumbnail. “And since what I actually want is clearly impossible and since it can’t be Alice for a million different reasons, that means—”

Eliot’s brow pinched. “What you _actually_ want?” 

“—that means the only possible answer is...” Quentin fell back in the seat, lips tugging into a grimace. “Julia.”

Julia Wicker was Quentin’s childhood best friend. Sweet, bubbly, and a bit of a daydreamer, she was passionate about three things: Beer, nachos, and the Mets. Eliot had always sort of idly thought that “Quentin” was the fourth item on the list, but Q denied that up, down, and sideways whenever the topic came up.

In fact, no one had cheered harder than Quentin when Julia had announced her engagement to her longtime boyfriend, James Jameson. But Eliot had wondered if he had seen a hint of sadness—of regret—his friend’s eyes, with each passing day toward the wedding bells.

“No way, Jules is my bud!” Quentin had laughed when Eliot tucked him away in a corner of the glittering engagement party, for drinks and gossip and an escape from Julia’s pushy Aunt Pearl, whose son was _also gay_. “We grew up together.”

“Be that as it may,” Eliot had purred, running his hand down Quentin’s warm arm, “I think there’s something else Julia would like to see _grow up_ , if you know what I mean.”

Quentin had splashed his champagne glass right at Eliot’s face. “They shouldn’t let you out of the house.”

But now it appeared that Eliot had been right all along.

“Julia,” Eliot repeated flatly. “You’re in love with Julia now?”

“I didn’t say _that.”_ Quentin squinted up at the ceiling in thought. “Like, was I once in love with Julia? Yeah, I mean, I think so. It wasn’t _love_ , not like how I know love can be now, but it was—it was _love_ to the extent that I was capable of feeling at the time. Back when I was so young and fucked up. She was there and beautiful and, like—god, Julia was my magic before I ever knew magic, you know?”

“Wow,” Eliot said, chest constricting to nothing. “We’ve got a poetry major over here.”

“So for this fucked up fake world—” Quentin threw his hands up. “Yeah, I could see it being her. Years long obsession finally culminating at the wedding I once dreaded with every fiber of my fucking being? I think I have to—I think there’s only one way this can end. And since this is a romantic comedy and a spell, then it should probably go the same way as, uh, as my favorite romantic comedy.”

“What’s your favorite romantic comedy?”

Quentin looked him dead in the eye. “ _The Graduate_.”

Eliot blinked. “The—”

“ _The Graduate._ ”

Eliot blinked again. “ _The Graduate_ is your favorite romantic comedy?”

“AFI lists it as one of the top twenty greatest films of all time.”

“ _The Graduate_ is not a romantic comedy.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Based on what?”

“The narrative structure.”

“It’s depressing!”

“It’s hilarious.” Quentin ran his hand through his hair, letting out a weak laugh. “But we’ve already debated this into the ground. Let’s not go backwards.”

Eliot couldn’t recall them ever talking about _The Graduate_ before, holy shit, but he didn’t feel like pressing the issue. One crisis at a time. “So you think you need to act out _The Graduate_ to go back to the ‘real world?’”

“Essentially, yeah.”

“You—” Eliot pursed his lips, trying to recall the film “—think you need to have sex with an older woman?”

“Preferably,” Quentin snorted. “But I actually meant I need to interrupt the wedding tomorrow. Declare my love, sweep Julia off her feet, and run away with her. Yadda, fuckin’, yadda.”

Heat spread Eliot’s neck in a stranglehold. “Like what you were going to do with Alice today. At the Empire State Building.”

“Which makes sense, right?” Quentin said, eyes lighting up. “Because you hate _Sleepless in Seattle,_ so I only have negative associations with that movie.” His expression darkened. “I mean, watching it with you was nice because it was a shitty day and you’re, um, funny when you hate things. But I obviously don’t think it’s a _good_ movie now, not after you ripped it apart. Also because I, like, watched it.”

That had never happened either, nice as it sounded. Eliot would have sold his soul to have a cuddly movie night with Q. 

“Anyway, uh,” Quentin ripped Eliot back to the moment. “My point is that we’re always in control of our own shit, in some way, when it comes to magic. That means that it’s up to me to get out of here. At the risk of sounding pat, I think I have to be true to myself or it won’t work. Or at least, I have to be as true to myself as I can be, considering the limitations.”

Eliot had a full-blown migraine. “Q, I hear what you’re saying but—”

“I _need_ to get back,” Quentin said again, the words softer. “I can’t—this isn’t my life, El. I think I kind of hate this life.”

“Your life is fabulous.” Eliot snapped, trying to force a reality check. “You are the youngest and hottest architect in New York City. I think you just need to remember that. Do some yoga. Get laid. Clear your head a bit, hm?”

The idea of Quentin Coldwater hating his life broke his heart, but it mostly enraged him. Some people had _reason_ to hate their life. Quentin was one of the lucky ones. They both were.

His friend considered him for a long moment.

“That would be reasonable.” Quentin took a deep breath. “Except _,_ deep down, I think you know I’m not full of shit here.”

Eliot swallowed. “Q—” 

“You have to know that. You have to, El, either because it’s really you underneath whatever this is or because you’re—” the line of Quentin’s chin wobbled “—because you’re part of _me.”_

He said the last word so hushed, so tenderly, that Eliot almost pulled him into his lap, their entire platonic friendship be damned. He wanted to kiss him, over and over, and again, and again, until the world fell away, beyond Henry’s, beyond the perfect skyline, until there was nothing left but Eliot and Quentin.

Quentin shifted closer to him in the silence, sealing his doom. “If you actually believed I was delusional, if you actually thought I was insane, you would have had me committed by now. So if you’re not going to do that, then _help me,_ El. Please. I need you.”

Those big brown eyes were going to be the end of him. They were going to kill him one day, rip him apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but his stupid broken heart.

Eliot could feel his paper thin resolve rip to shreds, his heart pounding in its sunflower-turn toward the sun. Quentin looked at him with so much hope and anguish, filtering back and forth, dizzying and devastating. Eliot had never wanted to kiss him more, and he had wanted to kiss him from the moment they met.

Instead, he sighed. “You sound completely batshit.”

“Yeah.” Quentin shrugged. “But if anyone can help me navigate this technicolor world, it’s you.”

God, Eliot wanted to fight it.

He wanted to tell him that he needed to sleep it off, that any help would be a hindrance, that he would regret all of this in the long run. But Eliot had always been a fool when it came to Quentin. Denying him wasn’t in his DNA.

This was no exception.

“Well, lucky for you, there’s only one thing I love more than the elegance of a perfectly planned event.” Eliot flashed his eyes up. “And that, my friend, is _drama_.”

“There he is.” Quentin lifted his mouth into a wry half-smile. “So you’re in?”

Eliot’s heart fluttered. 

Foolish.

* * *

Truth was, Eliot loved weddings.

They were fleeting pinnacles of a lucky life, the kind that had dotted his fantasies for as long as he could remember. Loath as he was to admit it, weddings were the only parties where glamour felt _earned._ “I’m in love,” the centerpieces sang. “Someone chose me,” the glittering lights promised. “This is finally the start of the rest of my life, a good life, a _happy_ life,” the long trains of white tulle and satin whispered. 

If Eliot could touch any part of it, if he could help breathe life and excitement into that miracle—the celebration of two people in love, who knew it and wanted to declare it—then it was an honor. So though they didn’t know each other all that well, making Julia’s special day perfect had actually meant more to him than anything else in his life.

Well.

...Nearly anything else.

After hand-shaking on an insane plan, Quentin had quickly gotten to work, insisting that they move to Eliot’s apartment to begin studying _romantic comedy theory_ and strategizing a game plan for _an efficient means of ensuring an adequate happily ever after_ , apparently involving Quentin and Julia ending up together, “at least as far as the final frame is concerned.” Whatever that meant.

While the idea of Quentin and Julia together made Eliot’s stomach hurt, it otherwise hadn’t taken much arm twisting. They had jumped back on the moped, en route to Eliot’s little Chelsea flat. But the endeavor had gotten off to a bit of a rough start, when Quentin had walked through Eliot’s door and immediately said, “This shit looks like the inside of Liberace’s mausoleum.”

Eliot’s apartment was made up of marble and gold flourishes, a glittery grand piano, and plenty of zebra print furniture. Every detail screamed _hello world, it’s Eliot!_ though punctuated not by an exclamation point, but by an exquisite commissioned mural of himself, lounging about in an olive grove, shirtless and being fed grapes by Dionysus. 

“Not like you have any taste, Mr. Pressed Khakis,” Eliot had said, sweeping into his beloved living room without a shred of shame.

“Makes two of us apparently. You actually like this?” Quentin had asked, spinning around. When Eliot had simply glared at him, he held up his hands. “Sorry, it’s fine. It’s just very— _very._ ”

“Very, very what?”

“No, it’s, uh, _very_.” Quentin had shrugged off his coat and dropped it to the floor, like a teenager. “Like, that’s all I can say about it. It’s very.”

“So now you’re a master of magic _and_ eloquence?” Eliot had poured a couple glasses of brandy from his peacock shaped Swarovski decanter. “Color me envious, sweetpea.”

When he had held out the glass, shaking the drink impatiently, Eliot had expected to get another eye roll or maybe an ungraceful snort at best. But Quentin just stared at him, eyes soft and mouth tilted, in something that looked like a sad bit of fondness.

“You know, the other you has a skull-shaped decanter,” Quentin had said, taking the Rémy Martin with a tiny nod of acknowledgement. “He says it’s in honor of Lord Byron and gothic romanticism, but Margo always says it’s actually because El’s just a Myspace goth bitch under it all. Jury's still out.”

Eliot had paused at the mention of the _other_ Eliot, fingers tightening around the peacock’s neck. The _other_ Eliot was a figment of Quentin’s imagination and the constant spectre over—whatever the hell this was.

Quentin brought up things he and the _other_ Eliot had done together so easily, like second nature, like this Eliot—the Eliot with him now, the real Eliot—was nothing but a pale imitation. His heart seized, mostly with worry but also with a dash of unseemly jealousy. “Quentin, I don’t think—”

“Let’s just get started,” Quentin had said, giving him a tight smile. “Time seems kinda wonky here, so we could have hours or we could have minutes or who the fuck knows. Do you have a DVD collection or anything? Or do we need to stream?”

Eliot sniffed, haughty and proud. “I have an in-home movie theater, with a selection of thousands of films.”

“Jesus, _what_ is your rent?” Quentin had stuck his tongue out, before waving off the rhetorical question. “Never mind. Irrelevant. Uh, okay, but do you have any rom coms?”

“Honey, please.”

So in the end, Eliot had gotten that which he would have killed for. He and Q sat together on his couch, watching romantic comedy after romantic comedy, complete with popcorn and, well… okay, more copious note-taking than any cuddling. That part had been a little weird. Too much of a reminder that Quentin was maybe not actually doing okay.

But otherwise, the whole thing was like something out of a fever dream, especially when Quentin had passed out along the plush cushions and kept sleeping all through the night, snoring lightly beneath the blanket Eliot had tucked him under. He watched him sleep in the blue flicker of the movie screen, as Nicholas Cage told Cher that _love don’t make things nice._ “It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren’t here to make things perfect.”

And then, next thing he knew—

It was time for the rehearsal dinner.

Night fell like a soft cashmere blanket. Stars twinkled above the ambient light, trying their best to peek through the glow of New York City. The dinner was set to begin, with the guests finding their way to their chairs under the giant white tent and colorful market lights. The air was warm and scented like crisp apples and firewood. 

Eliot closed his eyes, letting himself feel accomplished for just a moment.

But his melancholy reverie was broken by a loud crash of glass to the floor and a sweet voice saying, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” 

Julia Wicker bent down next to a perturbed server, helping her clean up a platter of broken drinks.

“I will pay for any damage,” Julia said, hand to her heart. Her ice rink of an engagement ring glinted in the light. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

The server waved her off and Julia bit her lip, falling onto her heels. Catching the corner of her eye, Eliot gave her a small wave, which brightened her whole face.

“Eliot! Hi!” Julia scrambled to stand, tripping over her own feet as she made her way across the room, wincing when she bumped into a chair and someone spilled their wine. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Eliot forced a bright smile, ignoring the twisting dagger of guilt, as she finally stumbled toward him. “Darling!” He kissed her on both cheeks, like the French. “Last night as a single lady treating you well?”

Either way, that was true. 

“I guess so!” Julia squeaked, too bright. “I mean, obviously, I’m _so_ excited. It’s gonna be _great._ Best day of my life!”

She smiled intensely. 

Eliot fluffed her hair. “Well, all that matters is that you look stunning.”

“Are you kidding?” Julia stretched her arm across the tent, the lawn, all of Central Park. “No, _this_ is stunning, Eliot. You’ve outdone yourself.”

 _I’m helping to ruin your wedding, maybe your whole life, because Quentin Coldwater has me wrapped around his insane little pinky._ “I’m thrilled to play even a small part in this wonderful event.”

“Best wedding planner ever,” Julia said, popping a kiss on his cheek. “I’d never be able to handle all these details on my own.”

But Julia would be happier too in the end, right? She’d be with Quentin. And Quentin would eventually—be himself again. The kind of man she would love. Nothing could be better than that, right?

Right.

“So how are you feeling?” Eliot dipped his lips low to her ear. “Got the wedding weekend jitters?”

“Ugh, of course I do,” Julia said, resting her head against his jaw. “So many people, so many details—”

Eliot plucked a fizzing flute off a silver platter and tucked it into her hand. Julia lifted the glass in thanks, taking a delicate sip. 

“—not to mention the overwhelming, soul-sucking terror that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life. But that’s normal, right?”

“Oh, honey,” Eliot cooed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s perfectly normal.”

Across the way, Julia’s fiance James Jameson stood with a group of fratty looking bros, punching each of them on the shoulder. Eliot didn’t know him well. He mostly knew that Julia and Quentin knew him in high school and/or college. He was foggy on the exact details. And since they had met, most of their conversations involved James asking Eliot if he had seen the latest golf game on ESPN, and Eliot saying he did, and that it had been a real nail-biter. Saved time. 

But overall, from what he could tell, James was a nice guy, with a square jaw and a penchant for zip-up sweaters. Good enough for a straight man, he supposed. James was no Quentin though. 

No one would ever be.

—Eliot grabbed another champagne and downed it.

Blessedly, a clink of spoons on glass broke through the moment, before he could drown too deep in his silly sorrows. It was time for the speeches. Eliot squared his shoulders, ready for anything.

The evening’s emcee—a jovial guy named Josh who liked the sound of his own voice too much—told a few corny warmup jokes and then quickly introduced Quentin, beckoning him up to the small stage with a crook of a finger. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Josh said, bending down around the mic stand. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for. May I present, the youngest and hottest architect in the city, _Architecture Quarterly’s_ Most Eligible Bachelor of 2016, and tonight’s man of honor—Mr. Quentin Coldwater!”

The applause was robust. 

Normally, Quentin would have soaked it up, grinning and laughing as he waved them all off with an _oh, stop it._ But tonight, he scowled. He held his shoulders up to his ears, the refined velvet oxblood suit Eliot had picked out for him (he’d just happened to have it lying around, in Q’s exact size, like kismet) looking wrinkled already. He stomped forward without making any eye contact, as though he was on his way to a guillotine. When he reached the center of the stage, Quentin huffed a breath into the mic, eyes flitting until they landed on Eliot.

Eliot gave him an encouraging nod. 

It would all be fine.

“What up, New York?” Quentin said, muffled mouth way too close to the microphone. Feedback squealed through the air. “Um. Sorry. Shit.”

...Oh, no.

“Wow, there’s—uh, there’s more people here than I realized.” Quentin cleared his throat. “I don’t love public speaking, but here I am, I guess. Against my will. Ha.”

He held out his hands in a little shrug, before dropping them to his sides. Eliot gripped tight to the bar.

“Hey, okay, speeches start with jokes, right? Here’s one. Um, so, an Ancient Roman walked into a bar and ordered a—a—a Martinus and the bartender was, like,” Quentin scrunched his face incredulously, “ _Wait, don’t you mean_ _a martini?_ And the Roman was like, _No,_ _if I wanted a double, I would have said so. I’m talking about Martinus Thomsen, the Danish philosopher and mystic who—”_

“Excuse me,” Eliot said quickly. “I need to go—stop whatever this is.”

Julia nodded. “Good call.”

Eliot raced toward the stage, slitting a finger against his throat to cut the long, confusing joke off at its head. Mid-convoluted sentence, Quentin drew his brows together, clearing his throat and nodding in understanding. 

“Uh, never mind, I mean, it’s kind of a subtle punchline? But it’s, like, really funny if you give it a chance and think about it for awhile. So if anyone wants to hear it later, let me know.”

(No one would, but it was a nice offer.)

“Anyway, no, the real reason we’re here is love. So let’s—let’s talk about love.”

Quentin ran a hand back through his hair and swallowed, audible through the microphone. 

“So, like, the way I understand love is like this.” He paused to let out a soft breath. “You meet someone. You meet them and you swear—god, it’s like the light is different and the world suddenly has _magic,_ right? And you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is _it_. This is what you’ve spent your entire life trying to find. That measure of safety, or—or even happiness, in someone else’s arms, in that singular way they look at you.”

And there he was.

The words were more labored than usual, stammering and uncertain in a way that sent a chill down Eliot’s spine. But the luminous heart of Quentin Coldwater was on display, warming the world with its generosity. Eliot couldn’t quite bear to look back at Julia—Julia, who was standing as far away from her hapless, boring fiance as she possibly could. Julia, who was definitely already having second thoughts about the whole thing even before Quentin had started speaking. The end was inevitable. 

For now, all Eliot could do was focus on the bright light in front of him.

“And you start to think that, sure, maybe you won’t ever change,” Quentin continued, staring down at the ground with a thin smile. “Maybe you’ll still be _you,_ in every way you despise. It’s not like—you’re not stupid. You know this won’t solve anything. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone.” 

Quentin closed his eyes for a moment, grabbing the microphone with two hands. He was still too close to the speaker, but the room was captivated.

“But maybe, for the first time in your life, you have… hope. Actual hope, for a better future, which is just—mind-boggling. It’s _mind-boggling_ to think that having this person by your side will maybe help make it all bearable, or—or—or help make it all worthwhile. That maybe, just maybe, _you_ could even be worth something, if only in the eyes of this spectacular person. At least, that is, until you realize—” 

Quentin looked up, meeting Eliot’s eyes. Something charged passed between them, an electric current, making everything else fall away. Eliot couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe._ Quentin was—he was so—

Quentin bared his teeth at the glittering wedding guests with a hollow smile. 

“—Until you realize that it’s all _fucking bullshit_.”

Eliot froze.

And Quentin laughed, loud and manic. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s all _great,_ until you realize that you’re still just a stupid asshole. And—and—and worst of all, you never learned how to listen. Kindergarten shit, but out of reach for Quentin Coldwater, right?”

 _Mayday,_ Eliot thought, twisting his head around to try to find an ally, to try to find someone or something that could put a stop to this train wreck. But every eye was wide and every jaw was dropped and Quentin was still _talking_.

“Maybe you listen a little when they say they like you well enough, that they think you’re cute and amusing and—and—and that, you know, _fucking you_ is fine, for a pastime, for now. For fun.” 

Eliot grabbed the arm of a server. “Tell Josh to cut the mic. Now.”

“But you definitely don’t listen when they say it’s all it is. That there’s nothing else there, that you’ll never be their—their _boyfriend_ because that’s not what they want. You don’t listen to the cold, hard facts, which is that they will _never_ want you, not the way you want them. Instead, you push, and push, and push, and _push,_ until they’re sick of your shit and you just wanna—until you just can’t handle the—” 

Josh cut the mic.

Eliot moved fast. 

He charged up the stage, pushed Quentin back, and thanked the crowd for indulging a bit of performance art, all with a dazzling smile. And with that blatant lie established, Eliot _hauled ass_ to get Quentin as far away from the proceedings as possible.

He squeezed the juncture of his neck and shoulder hard and tight, pushing him forward without breaking his smile at the bewildered crowd.

“Don’t you dare stop moving,” Eliot said out the side of his mouth, a private little hiss. “If I feel you turn around, I will bodily lift you over my shoulder, do you understand?”

Quentin snorted. “Promise?”

At least when Eliot snapped a glare down at him, Quentin managed to look somewhat abashed.

It was a quiet night in the city, especially with the lively sparkle of the tent far behind them. In the cool white light of the streetlamp, the orange-red vibrancy of the leaves were like a gentle crown over a difficult moment. Eliot watched them rustle in the wind, head tilted toward the sky, as Quentin plopped down on the curb and buried his face in his hands.

Eliot only waited another moment before sighing, “What the hell?”

“Things are different where I’m from.” Quentin’s voice was dulled, lips pressed to his palms. “I’m different. I’m, uh, I’m more complicated. Everything’s more complicated.”

“Where you’re _from_ ,” Eliot repeated quietly, weary down to his bones. “Quentin—”

“I don’t need to hear it, okay?” Quentin threw his hands up. “The speech sucked. Got it.”

Eliot shut his eyes, an odd laugh bubbling up in his chest. “It wasn’t so much that the speech sucked as it was indicative of some kind of nervous breakdown, Q.”

“If you think that was me having a nervous breakdown, then you’re in for some shit.”

“Is this a joke to you?”

“Kind of?” Quentin sputtered out his lips, shrugged. “I mean, like, none of this is real, so I can kinda say and do whatever I want. I—I don’t see why I can’t work out my real shit, in the safety of the illusion, as long as I can still—”

“You need to stop,” Eliot hissed, hot anger grabbing at his heart. “You need to stop saying that this isn’t real. This is your life, Quentin. I’m sorry if things haven’t been working out the way you want them to, but you can’t—”

“If you think I’m crazy, have me committed. Otherwise, help me.”

“I am _trying_ to help you, but you’re not making it easy.”

“Yeah, well, water wet.”

Quentin stared at his hands, fidgeting them about in his lap and Eliot felt a hairline fracture in his righteous indignation. He sank to the ground beside him, ever a fool.

“Whatever that was,” Eliot ventured gently, “it clearly wasn’t about Julia.”

“Uh, you think?” Quentin rolled his eyes. Snorted. His new repertoire.

“You’re sabotaging yourself.” Eliot placed a hand on his knee. “You quit the job you love, you bailed on Alice, and now you just ruined whatever chance you possibly could have had with Julia. So tell me what’s really going on or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Quentin tensed. “Come on, deep down, as much as you don’t want to admit it because it fucks with your sense of reality, you _know_ I’m not full of shit here or you would have—”

“No, _you_ know I’ve always been in love with you and you’re taking advantage of it for your little joy ride to hell.”

Eliot didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t going to beat around the obvious bush, the one that had been spray painted in rainbow and garlanded with glitter hearts, ever since the day Quentin had waltzed into his life looking like a dream from an impossible world. 

Quentin turned his head slowly, the whites of his eyes shining twin moons in the light. “What?”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Eliot said, voice thick with all the feeling he couldn’t choke back. “But not this. I’m not going to sit around and let you run everything into the ground. Above all, I’m your friend. No friend would do that.”

“I—” Quentin sat up, breath hitching, stopping his words. “Wait. You’re—you’re _in love with me_?”

Eliot stared out at the carless line of Park Avenue. “Don’t be naive.”

Quentin wrenched a hand in his hair, speaking in a quick rush, annoyance at the edge, a strained frenzy carrying him through. “That—Jesus Christ, that would have been helpful information for me to know, Eliot.” 

“Helpful?” Eliot let out a joyless laugh. “Well, apologies for not being more _helpful_ through your spiral, Q.”

Quentin clenched his jaw. “That’s not what I—”

“I’ll be very clear,” Eliot said, cutting Quentin off with his natural gravitas, his natural _strength_ , damn him. “I’m the stupid gay guy who fell for his straight best friend and that is literally the only reason I’m here right now. That’s how pathetic I am. Happy now?”

The wind whistled above through the autumn bright branches. Somewhere, a violin thrummed and moaned, a melancholy melody. Laughter carried from the tent, from the perfect party Eliot had planned, and he kind of wanted to die. He wanted to drown in the way Quentin’s warm brown eyes rested on him, searching across his face like he was bewildered, like he was amazed.

Quentin whispered, “You’re not stupid.”

“Evidence begs to differ.” Eliot forced out a little chuckle. Quentin didn’t need to deal with his shit on top of everything.

“No, you’re—it’s this _insane_ world, El. It’s not you.”

“Q, I can’t—”

“Look, just—24 hours.” Quentin took his hand, squeezing it tight, sending a tingling warmth up his arm. “Give me 24 hours. If this all blows up in my face, you can tell me to fuck off and not have anything to do with me ever again, okay? But let me at least try to figure this out and fix it, please.”

“I’m always going to want to have something to do with you, Q,” Eliot said quietly, watching the shimmering streetlight move across the black asphalt. “But I’m getting worried, honey. Can you blame me?”

Quentin tipped his face to the sky, a barking laugh carrying up to the stars. “God, this sucks. This is—I just—”

He cut himself off with another hard laugh. 

“I mean, fuck, you have no idea,” Quentin whispered. “You have no fucking idea, El, how much I’ve always wanted to hear—goddammit. Jesus Christ, I—”

To Eliot’s horror, Quentin let out a choked sob, a hand coming up to cover his crying face. His shoulders bounced, a strained sound keening out his throat. Eliot pressed a hand on his back, heart ticking frantically, all ideas to _make it stop_ coming up short.

”Q,” Eliot said helplessly. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You think I want it to be Julia?” Quentin wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, a line of snot glistening in the light. “Julia—Julia just makes it easy. If—when she runs to my arms tomorrow and tells me she loves me, it won’t mean anything to me once I’m back. It’s not gonna hurt. It’s—it’s not gonna be fucking torture.”

Something wild, something _impossible_ , rippled under Eliot’s skin. “As opposed to?”

The wind howled low and long over the stretch of silence.

”You’re not him.” Quentin finally said, eyes swollen and cheeks red. He picked at his fingernails. “I know you think I’m out of my mind and—and maybe I am, but that’s nothing new and it doesn’t change the fact that I know—that I _know_ this isn’t my life. It’s, like, some weird approximation of the life I maybe wanted, once, but where shit is twisted and—and you’re not _him_. I can’t—”

Eliot held his breath, stomach knotting in a hopeless anticipation. But then Quentin breathed in hard through his nostrils and pulled his head up, shoulders squared back for the first time almost two days. 

“I can’t let myself get distracted. If there’s anything I know, if there’s anything in this world or the other that I actually _understand,_ it’s... magic and story structure and how those two things might work together when your fucking back’s against the wall. This only has one ending for me.”

Eliot really was stupid.

He was so stupid to hope for anything, for anything more than all the blessings he’d already been given in his fabulous, perfect life. He was so _pathetic_ for feeling the way he did, for scrounging for scraps like a starved dog, when Quentin was at his lowest, at his worst. When Eliot was supposed to be a friend.

“You and Julia,” Eliot said quietly. “That’s the end. That’s what you want.”

“Julia makes it easy,” Quentin said again, but now with the fire of determination. “It makes sense. It’s what I have to do.”

“Q,” Eliot pleaded, shaking his head. But he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t even know what he was asking for, not at this point.

“I mean, shit, ah, it’s a classic, right? Entitled asshole breaks up childhood friend’s wedding. That’s, uh, that’s me.” Quentin shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, a tight smile stretching against his wrists. “Fuck.”

And Eliot’s heart hurt, for himself, for impossible things, but mostly for Quentin. They were both out of their depth. “You’re not an asshole.”

When Quentin made an incredulous sound, Eliot snorted. “Well, okay, maybe you’ve been a little more irritable than usual. I still think you might be dehydrated.”

“Yeah, uh,” Quentin laughed, wet and loud. “That’s probably it.”

Eliot smiled at him, just a little, rubbing soothing circles into the velvet of his jacket. His back was warm. “You’re a good person, Q. And I meant what I said. Above everything, I’m your friend. I’ll help with anything you need. I just—I just want you to be happy.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

The words boomed through his chest.

Eliot jerked back, falling onto the heels of his palms, feeling not unlike a spooked fawn. His heart pounded on his tongue as his skin scrambled back in place, the ice cold stench of fear shooting adrenaline through his veins. He searched the trees for a loudspeaker, searching the sky for a beam of light emanating from above, but only found the wind whistling soft and lonely through the branches overhead. He took a few steadying breaths and convinced himself he had imagined it.

Besides, Quentin hadn’t seemed to hear anything either. He just leaned into Eliot, like he had a hundred times before. “The most fucked up thing is that there was a time when I literally daydreamed about this shit. Back when Julia was probably gonna marry James, I would obsess over it. I would, like, imagine running up the fucking aisle and falling to my knees and—and just _begging_ her to marry me instead. But now I have to do it and it’s—” he sucked a breath between his teeth. “I don’t know. Magic sucks sometimes.”

Eliot slipped his fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Q. If you don’t want to be with Julia—” 

“No, uh, that’s not how it works,” Quentin said, eyes squeezing shut. “I constantly have to do shit I don’t want to do. That’s what it means to be a grown up. Why should this be any different?”

“Is there anything I can say to convince you otherwise?” Eliot asked, pressing his lips to the top of his head. Friendly and familiar. “Regardless of my feelings, I mean?”

 _Regardless of my feelings_ was the title of his memoirs. He’d be fine.

“There’s a lot you could say,” Quentin said, voice jagged and raspy. “But, uh, please don’t. I have to do this.”

“Then we’re doing this, together,” Eliot said, squeezing his shoulder. “Whatever you need. First mate reporting for duty.”

“Even though you think I’m crazy?”

”Eh,” Eliot said lightly. “Crazy is underrated.”

Quentin didn’t say anything. He just looked up at him, face illuminated by the white street light. There was none of the surly snappishness that he’d grown over the past day, none of the jagged edges or the grumpy disdain that had painted over the sweet man he’d always known. He was like an exposed nerve, a lump of unfinished clay. He looked _young_ , like a—like a—

Like a 23-year-old grad student. 

He looked like someone who had no idea what he was doing, but was going to keep trying anyway.

It was the most beautiful thing Eliot had ever seen.

Eliot jumped up, tugging Quentin along with him by the hand. “Come along, dear. We’re going to check you into your hotel room, get you some beauty sleep, and then move onward to the happily ever after you deserve, if it’s the last thing we do.”

Quentin let out a breath and followed him easily, stumbling along the path behind him.

“Shit, El, thank you, that’s—I know I’ve been—” He paused with a frown. “Wait, hotel room? Isn’t my apartment right down the street?”

“I booked out the Plaza for all the guests. Complimentary stay.”

“Jesus, how much does this wedding _cost_?”

* * *

  
  
Eliot creaked the door closed slowly and set his wards with a painstaking precision, moving his silently through the unmoving air, as to not disturb the lump curled in his bed. 

_Moonlight spilled into the room from the window, illuminating everything in a blue pallor. He shivered, a sick feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach._

_Under any other circumstances, Eliot would put on a blackout charm, play some fun music, and light a few scented candles, maybe the ones enchanted to smell like fresh-laundered linens and the seaside. On any other day, he would click his tongue disapprovingly and pull out every stop to make the air warmer—happier by every measure—to fill the atmosphere with the cozy mirth he prided himself on. Anything to stop the screech of eerie silence, the deafening stillness of a lingering shitty day._

_Eliot had never done well in heavy rooms, with the hospital tenor, the ones where he could count every breath. Instinct pulled him toward light and merriment, not only out of a knee-jerk urge to comfort and provide, but also to stop the termites that gnawed their way through his foundations in every silence._

_But on bad days, Quentin sought out silence and solitude. Eliot respected it since—well, it wasn’t like it was any of his goddamn business how his friend handled his depression. He just wasn’t sure how Q could_ possibly _find solace or respite or anything good when he was alone in the dark, with only his thoughts to keep him company. He knew enough of what those thoughts told Quentin—the ways they lied to him, they ways they held up fucked up fun house mirrors at his every perceived flaw, the ways they deadened him to a shell of himself. He knew enough, too much, and he couldn’t help but want to intervene every time._

_Mother hen syndrome._

_Eliot also didn’t pretend to understand what Quentin went through, except that he recognized some of it in himself. The blankness of his eyes, the grease in his hair, the trembling of his hands. He knew it fucking well, in his own ways, with his own coping mechanisms. Quentin had a tendency himself weak or worthless, when he felt like using Eliot‘s least favorite vernacular, especially in times like these. But as far as Eliot was concerned, there was no moral judgment to survival. It was more about luck than so-called_ strength _anyway._

_Not that Quentin wasn’t strong._

_It was condescending as fuck to say and so he never would, but Q was honestly_ easily _the strongest man Eliot had ever met. The way he faced the world, the way he navigated it, left him floored most days. Heartbroken on others. To Eliot, his strength was undeniable. But it just—it might not have_ looked _like strength, af least, not to someone like Quentin. Not in the ways Quentin would value._

_Eliot undressed as quietly as he could, letting his clothes fall the the floor, until he was clad in only his satin boxers. He kicked his fancy day clothes to a pile near his hamper and crept over to his side of the bed, lifting the covers and maneuvering in as carefully as he could, so he could fit his body to spoon around Quentin without waking him._

_But the second his arm slid around a broad chest and his face buried in a tangle of soft hair, the mattress shifted and a tear-stained voice croaked, “El?”_

_“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Eliot murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “It’s been a long day.“_

_Quentin wrapped his fingers around Eliot’s forearm, cuddling closer. "Where’ve you been?”_

_”Talking Bambi down,” Eliot said, tired body melting into their embrace. “Out for blood. Wanted to track down the hedge bitches herself, especially Kady.”_

_”That nickname is kinda sexist.”_

_”Dare you to explain sexism to Margo.”_

_”Ha, ha,” Quentin said dully. “Uh, but that’s—I didn’t even know she liked Julia all that much.”_

_”Er, I think it’s more the principle of the thing, but she certainly, you know, tolerates Julia? Which is enough. Apparently,”_

_It was only partially true. Margo was indifferent to Wicker, but she_ loathed _shitty hedges. But that was—private. So._

_“Seems, uh, pretty high on the Margo scale,” Quentin said quietly. “I doubt I even merit a bored distaste.”_

_Eliot closed his eyes. “I have it on good authority she’s at least vaguely fond of you.”_

_He could compliment Quentin until he was blue in the face, but the steady stream of needed reassurances against self-loathing demented brain blather made him feel like he was slowly bleeding out. But he would do it every time, for Quentin, because that’s what friends did._

_His arm squeezed Quentin’s chest tight. His lips grazed against the shell of his ear, not quite a kiss. Didn’t want to push it._

_Quentin twisted around in his arms, swollen face beautiful in the silvery light. "Can you tell me a story?”_

_Eliot thumbed at the corner of his mouth. “Any requests?”_

_“How ‘bout the one about the delusional motherfucker who wanted to be a hero but was actually a piece of shit who made everything worse for everyone, all the fucking time, until he died alone, miserable and unloved?”_

_Eliot hummed lightly, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Don Quixote doesn’t need a gritty reboot, darling.”_

_”There’s no way you’ve read Don Quixote.”_

_”I know the plot through osmosis.” Eliot pushed Quentin’s hair back, skimmed the edge of his fingernail through a tiny tangle to loosen it. “Give yourself a break, Q. It’s a shitty situation.”_

_“Penny said it's my fault."_

_Eliot took a slow breath. "Penny's a dickhead."_

_“I was an asshole this morning.”_

_”No argument, but that has nothing to do with—”_

_“Yeah, it does,” Quentin sat up, tugging his knees to his chest. “It—I didn’t handle my shit. I put it all on Julia, which, like, yeah, I’ve done that my whole fucking life, but if I hadn’t, for_ once, _then—then maybe Julia’s guard wouldn’t have been down and Kady wouldn’t have been able to—"_

 _"You’re too smart for this," Eliot said_ _. "By that logic, if Margo hadn’t gone to the coffee shop yesterday morning or if I had worn my yellow tie instead of my green one, or if a fucking Brazilian butterfly farted in a field, then—"_

 _"It's not the same," Quentin groaned, throwing himself back down face-first into Eliot's lap. “I was, like, actively antagonizing her because I’m a selfish dick who can’t keep his shit together. Who still—who still feels entitled to_ Julia’s _shit, after all this goddamn time.”_

 _Eliot willed his heart not to twist in his chest, willed it not to react at all. There was no reason to feel anything about any of this. It was a shitty situation, and Quentin needed a friend, not a jealous lover. And it wasn’t like Eliot didn’t already_ know _that Julia was his own personal Jolene, that he couldn’t compete with the years of history and affection and the dreamy pining from so close yet so far. That the second Julia snapped her pretty tattooed fingers, Quentin would—_

_But it was usually easier to ignore._

_Eliot had only heard about what had happened. But the way the story went, Quentin and Julia had screamed at each other in the middle of the quad. The issue being that Julia had started fucking Penny, who Quentin hated. Apparently, it was a betrayal of their friendship, a violation of the bro-who-is-not-so-secretly-in-love-with-you code, and Quentin had said some particularly cruel things in service of that crusade. When Margo retold it, she had uncharacteristically skipped over the details, a pinch to her mouth and an outsized annoyance with Q, both of which heavily implied she may have been attempting to spare Eliot’s feelings._

_Which was mortifying._

_Then within a few hours, Julia was in a coma, trapped in a particularly insidious illusion spell from which there was a chance she could never awaken. It was only when Kady Orloff-Diaz ran into the dean’s office to confirm her treachery that they could get anywhere, that a distraught Penny was able to enter Julia’s mind, confirming that she was trapped in an endless dinner party hosted by her mother. Horrible._

_Fogg had let down the wards and summoned an Underworld spirit to short her cerebral cortex. Now, they just had to wait, until Julia got herself through the rest of the way. She was a good Magician, maybe Brakebills’ best, so hopes were high. But still, Penny had unilaterally kicked Quentin out of the room, claiming he fucked with his focus, to the point that he had been thisclose to literally_ kicking him _out of the room._

_But no one had fought it, least of all Q._

_"Julia is in charge of Julia," Eliot reminded Quentin, not for the first time. "If she let her psychic wards down enough that this happened, it's not on you."_

_"That's not as comforting as you think it is."_

_"Then tell me what would be,” Eliot said softly, petting his hair. “How can I help, sweetheart?"_

_Maybe Quentin wasn’t the hero of this particular story, but he was what mattered to Eliot. Even at his worst, Q was just so goddamn sweet, so goddamn brave and kind, even under all his bullshit. Everyone had their shit, everyone could be an asshole in the right circumstances and sometimes—like Eliot—for no real reason at all. But more often than not, Quentin’s gorgeous heart was so generous and so_ good _in the face of a cruel world. That was his strength. That was what made him Eliot’s sweetheart._

_Quentin shifted, his nose nuzzling against Eliot's waistband with a sigh. "Can I just—please?"_

_"Q," Eliot said, pulse jumping despite himself. "I didn't mean—"_

_"I know you didn't," Quentin murmured, pressing his palm down along the soft length of his cock, wrapping his hand around and squeezing. "But you asked how you could help. Letting me blow you would help."_

_"Jesus, Quentin," Eliot breathed, lips falling open when Q ducked down to mouth at the cloth-covered head, the satin suddenly painful against his skin. "I'm not—I’m not sure this is a great idea."_

_Quentin pushed down the boxers, licking the exposed skin between the grooves of his pelvic bones, lighting up every nerve ending like fire. "Making you feel good makes me feel good.”_

_“I know, baby, but—”_

_“Don’t you want me?”_

_Quentin looked up at him, eyes dark and uncertain. It wasn’t a line, it wasn’t a teasing taunt, to try to coax Eliot into a laugh. It was an honest question. Like he wasn’t sure, like he somehow still didn’t_ know _that Eliot had been a mess for him from the start. Would always be a mess for him. That Eliot was completely, madly—_

_“I always want you,” Eliot said, voice gravelly, tilting his chin up with his hand. Quentin let out a sad little sound, pushing up on his palms to kiss Eliot frantically. His skin lit on fire, hands finding the nape of his neck, the unwashed tresses of his long hair. For a few indulgent moments, he kissed him back, defenseless and exposed._

_Eliot broke the kiss with effort, pulling away just far enough so their lips didn’t touch, foreheads still tipped together. This wasn’t what Quentin needed right now. He was out of his mind. When he was like this, he wanted to punish himself, not feel good. And Eliot wasn’t in that game this time around._

_“But how about this instead?” Eliot breathed out, kissing his nose sweetly, but definitively._ This isn’t happening. _“How about we get my contraband laptop and just—watch a movie and relax?”_

_Quentin sniffed, pulling back reluctantly. “A movie?”_

_“How do you feel about rom coms?” Eliot said, swiping his thumbs against Quentin’s collarbones, just to marvel at their sturdiness. Quentin almost smiled._

_“Uh. Bad?”_

_“Mm,” Eliot tugged him up into his lap, curling his arms around him and kissing his head. “But until you experience the swooning pleasure of watching known convicted murderer Tom Hanks throw away his whole life for a blonde woman he barely knows on top of the Empire State Building, how can you be sure you’ve really lived?”_

_Quentin settled back into his arms, sighing into his skin. “Wait, uh, did I miss a major news story or—?”_

_Eliot kissed away the question, soft and slow. “Just watch it with me, Coldwater.”_


	3. Chapter 3

  
  


* * *

“I like you very much.

Just as you are.”

— **Bridget Jones’ Diary**

* * *

They almost missed the ceremony.

When Eliot blinked awake—strange dreams caressing and crawling his skin—it wasn’t to the sound of “Karma Chamelon,” but to a gentle stream of early morning sunlight and mouthful of impossibly soft hair.

In the haze of waning sleep, Eliot pulled one eye into a blurry slit, registering the silent blue flashes of the hotel’s pay-per-view channel. The sounds of the city slipped through the windows, cars honking and rushing, sirens wailing, and the wind flying between the tallest buildings in a constant aerodynamic loop. But it fell soft on his ears, the grandiosity of New York far away, like an aerial view, like a miniature in a snow globe, compared to the dizzy feeling of Quentin’s heartbeat against his own. 

In the cream and beige finery of the Plaza suite, in the middle of the large king size bed, Quentin was sleeping on top of him, head nestled on his chest and one leg draped across his thighs. They had fallen asleep watching romantic comedies—a specific focus on the great break-up-the-wedding moments including, unfortunately, _The Graduate_ —debating the merits of each approach until exhaustion had depleted their tongues. Last thing Eliot remembered, Quentin was snoring a foot away.

The sun rose on them entwined.

He had been close to Quentin before, of course. Arms slung tipsily after a few drinks at Henry’s, fingers nearly tangled while holding onto the same subway strap, tingling puffs of breath on his neck while riding together on the moped. They had been friends for so long, so affectionate and familiar with each other, where full-body hugs were frequent and lingering touches friendly and casual. But they had never once been like this, never held each other in a quietly— _intimately_ —without the easy deniability of the world at large.

Eliot half-closed his eyes, nuzzling his nose into the top of his head, drowning in the linen and sweat scent of him. He palmed a hand down Quentin’s warm back, clad only in an undershirt, and pulled him in closer, indulging just for a moment in the ways their bodies fit together. Every angle and curve felt like a homecoming.

When Quentin inevitably woke up, inevitably jolted away in embarrassment, Eliot knew he could play it off as the effect of sleep cuddles, of good friends getting too close after a tough night. He knew what this was and what it wasn’t. But Quentin was _so_ _warm_ and _in his arms_ and Eliot was—

God, he was only human.

“Quentin,” Eliot whispered helplessly into his hair. It was a prayer, though for what, he couldn’t say. Impossible things.

A little groan rumbled along his rib cage and Quentin squinted his eyes up at him, chin resting on his sternum. Eliot’s heart jumped at the sight of his messy hair, wild and sticking out everywhere, at the little flecks of dried sleep gathering at the corners of his eyes. His face was close, lips flushed, and Eliot could feel his feathering breath his chin.

“Eliot?” Quentin croaked, rubbing his face into his chest like a cat. Eliot tightened his hand on on back reflexively, an unfamiliar warmth pooling low in his gut. It felt like a memory, like the words to a song he knew as a child, more than something that was actually happening to him. 

“Morning, Q,” Eliot murmured, voice feeling disembodied from the rest of him. “Sleep okay?”

“Jesus, yeah, better than—” Quentin breathed, his beautiful face breaking open in the golden light. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Eliot whispered, heart trembling in his chest.

As they laid there, Quentin wasn’t pulling away. He _stayed,_ like it was where he wanted to be. He was smiling, and his fingers were playing with the edge of his trouser waistband, and all of Eliot’s senses were in a euphoric frenzy. And—and Quentin looked like _himself_ again, warm and open and sincere, bright eyes shining. And he was looking at _Eliot_ like—like—like if he leaned down—if he just tilted his head a little bit, if he closed the gap, then maybe—

“Oh my god,” Quentin groaned, a raspy sound as he laid his cheek against his racing heartbeat. “God, it’s _so_ good to see you, El.”

Eliot’s lips twitched into a smile, a tangled ball of bashfulness bouncing around his chest. “Yeah?”

“God, yeah, I had—I had the weirdest dream.” Quentin closed his eyes, letting out a tiny laugh. He reached for Eliot’s hand and slid their fingers together, squeezing their palms tight. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot murmured, brushing back a few strands of his hair from his face. Their bodies were somehow still locked together, still contoured around each other like puzzle pieces. “I’ve been having some weird dreams too lately.”

Quentin leaned into his touch, nosing at his palm. “So, like, FYI? We need to cut the fuck back on the rom coms.”

Eliot’s stomach wriggled. “Uh.”

”—‘Cause, like, I literally dreamed that I was one of those assholes. You know, an _architect,_ which, yeah, yeah, sexiest profession, whatever, but it, uh, wasn’t? And then—”

Eliot tensed. “Quentin.”

“—and, like, you were planning Julia’s wedding to _James_ for some goddamn reason? And I thought I had to break it up? It was one of those dreams where I sort of knew I was dreaming, only I thought it was a spell or something. So the whole time, I was trying to, like, rationalize with this _extremely gay_ version of you about how—”

Eliot pried his hand away, sliding to sit up, suddenly not all that interested in holding him.

“But I know, that—that doesn’t matter,” Quentin said in a rush, eyes squeezed tightly closed. “I just—look, last night sucked, okay? And—and I blacked out and I don’t remember what happened, but I’m just—I’m glad you’re here, no matter what. And I know I should have just—”

“Quentin.”

“—um, I shouldn’t have just assumed about labels or how you would want to go about things or whatever. Like, I’m not the guy who needs shit like that, okay? You know I’m not. So if you’re good with going back to—to—to how it was, then I think I can handle that as long as—”

“ _Quentin,”_ Eliot hissed, effectively cutting him off. “Listen to me. You’re at the Plaza hotel on the morning of Julia’s wedding, you _are_ an architect, and you’re right, I am extremely gay. Thanks for finally noticing.”

It came out harsher than intended, but Eliot couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t _hear_ this, whatever it was. He couldn’t hear whatever reason Quentin had for not being surprised to find them tangled up together upon waking, whatever Quentin was trying to apologize for, with words that sounded dangerously like he thought the two of them were—

It had no bearing.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t _real._ Quentin was going to remember that sooner or later, whenever this little crisis was over and everything went back to normal. Eliot needed to protect himself. He needed to be ready.

Quentin sat up ramrod straight, head swiveling all around the room. His mouth dropped for a long moment, nostrils flaring in the silence.

“Motherfucker,” was all he finally said.

The next thirty minutes or so were a blur. Quentin quickly realized they had overslept—having fallen asleep before they could set an alarm—making it impossible to get to the wedding on time. As Quentin ran around, grabbing pants and socks from off the floor and rambling about how the spell had probably planned it this way, for maximum drama, Eliot did briefly feel like the worst wedding planner in the world.

At this point, he had let Julia down in every possible way and it would likely be a black mark on his small yet growing reputation as an amateur fete facilitator. But the burning imprint of Quentin on his skin made it hard to internalize any guilt. Privately, embarrassingly, he couldn’t help but think it was worth it, to get that pathetic snatch of time before he finally did lose him forever.

Once they quickly got dressed, both wearing the same clothes as the day before in the rush, they ran out the fancy lobby doors and jumped over turnstiles in a mad dash for the ceremony. They raced across the winding paths of the park, through groups of people doing yoga in brightly colored spandex, past the usual cupcake vendors, past the friendly Central Park Starbucks™, and through a flock of swans, honking and hollering at them for the intrusion.

The sound of a harp playing Pachelbel’s Canon reached their ears before they spotted the large white wedding arch, made of blooming roses, azaleas, and hydrangeas, each and every flower lovingly chosen by Eliot himself. The guests all sat in satin-lined chiavari chairs, rows and rows of perfect pastels and waving handkerchiefs. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, as everyone gazed breathlessly up at the splendor of matrimony.

”Jesus fucking Christ,” Quentin muttered, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “This is—fuck.”

Eliot didn’t bother asking him to elaborate. 

At the end of the aisle, under the giant white blooms, the priest was already doing his spiel, speaking joyfully of devotion. Julia and James stood across from each other, holding hands, looking stunning in their perfect tux and perfect long white dress. Foolishly, Eliot’s heart swelled with the beauty all around him, with the promise of love. Of hope. 

But Quentin cleared his throat, heaved a breath, and under his breath said something that sounded like _fuck it, go time._ He threw his hand high in the air and charged like a bull down the path, clomping shoes stomping all over the scattered white petals.

“Julia! Hey! Stop the—stop it! Everyone stop!”

The music came to a halt, every eye turning toward him in shock. In particular, Julia slowly turned her head toward the intrusion, a deep frown painted on her face. “...Q?”

“Hey Quentin!” James said perkily, waving up a hand. “So glad you’re here, pal.”

“Hey James,” Quentin said, averting his eyes. “And yeah, I know I’m late.”

”You’re the man of honor,” Julia said, eyes narrowing. “You left early last night and then skipped out on mimosas and group photos. It was really important to me that you were there and it’s kind of shitty that you’d just... show up like this.”

Quentin shrugged half-heartedly. “Sorry. But hey, um, can we—can talk for sec?”

Julia blinked. “Now?”

“I need to tell you something.”

” _Now?”_

“Yeah, now. Sorry.” Quentin took a hand back through his hair, eyes planted on the ground. “Anyway, um, so. So I was thinking—”

Cold dread rippled through Eliot’s whole body, everything within him screaming to _stop Quentin,_ every angle of his friend’s hunched shoulders and closed off body language _promising_ that this was going to be way worse than the rehearsal dinner. But he couldn’t move, the world in car wreck slow motion, as Quentin made another speech. 

It wasn’t the one they practiced.

Quentin was nothing if not a genuine soul, even at his lowest, at his worst. So it was like he was physically incapable of saying the all the words Eliot had Cyrano de Bergerac’d for him (“Since the first day I saw you Julia, I knew what love was supposed to be.” Etc.) Only, well, you know, if Cyrano de Bergerac had thought Roxane seemed lovely enough, but actually wanted to make out with Christian. Minor details. Point was, Quentin had stopped and started the planned speech several times before clenching his fists in frustration and opting to speak from his own heart.

—Or his own logic center, as the case may be.

This time, there was none of the fervor from the night before. None of the barely concealed emotion and sorrow and _rage,_ none of the poetic inflections over heartfelt and bitter words. This time, Quentin simply laid out a clear and concise rationale for why Julia and James no longer made sense as a couple, the ways in which Julia and Quentin would be more or less compatible as life partners, and an economic plan for recouping the loss on their payments for the wedding day. 

“—and, uh, in conclusion, that’s why you should run away with me now. Right now.” Quentin cleared his throat, holding his hand out. “Please.”

Everyone gasped in unison. 

A little old lady passed out, as they do. James stared at Quentin like a kicked dog, tilting his head back and forth in confusion. The bridesmaids all held their hands to their hearts, wide eyes looking at Quentin like he held the world in his hands.

Julia parted her mouth, letting out a breathless sound. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Quentin let out a matching breath. “Um. I love you or whatever.”

That should have been painful for Eliot to hear, but it actually made another inappropriate laugh pop out of his mouth. He covered it with a cough.

“Oh,” Julia said again, still breathless. “Wow, um—” She shook her head. “No, thank you, Quentin.”   
  


The collective gasp was horrified this time. The birds stopped chirping. The air stood still. Eliot’s knees buckled.

Quentin’s face darkened. “What?”

“I’m not interested in being with you.” Julia pulled her lip down into a wince. “I mean, I love you, of course, but you’re like a brother to me.”

“No,” Quentin laughed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. That’s not right. I did the thing. So let’s go.”

Eliot’s stomach twisted, anxiety spiking in his veins. He gave the curious onlookers as disarming a smile as he could, slowly moving his way toward the front of the open air space, ready to intervene as necessary.

“I don’t want to go with you,” Julia said, eyebrows bunching together. “That’s what I just said.”

“ _No_ ,” Quentin snarled. “No, ‘Julia,’ that’s not how this works.”

Eliot’s stomach jumped and he picked up his pace, walking right up the aisle. The crowd was murmuring and not in a good way.

”How what works?” Julia’s lips snapped into a tight smile. “You think because one magazine says you’re the dreamboat of the year, you can get any woman you want now? You think you can just show up late to my wedding, declare your lackluster love out of the damn blue, and I’ll... just go along with it because you’re the _youngest and hottest architect in the city?_ Screw you, Quentin.”

“There is no way you love James,” Quentin counter argued, pointing a sharp finger the groom’s way. “No fucking way.”

“Bro,” James said, in a little punched out sound of betrayal. Julia nearly crushed the stems of her bouquet. 

“Q, you need to stop.”

“That’s—that’s not even the real James. That’s... James Jameson, for some fucking reason, and he’s, like, the most whitebread dude on the planet. The real James was at least fun and smart and kind of a condescending dickhead who smoked cigars like cigarettes. And—and—and in real life, you are dating the most dynamic _people_ on the planet, a dickhead psychic traveler and woman who trapped you in a mental prison of your own making.”

Julia scrunched her face up. “What?”

“You don’t fuck boring, Julia!” Quentin lodged, to more gasps. “You’ve never fucked boring. So come on, let’s—”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Quentin,” Julia said, voice going low, unrecognizably hoarse. “Maybe I don’t love James, but that doesn’t mean I love you.”

Quentin stopped cold, his red and angry face going a little pale, a little stunned. 

He whispered, “I know that.”

—Eliot’s heart _hurt_. 

James turned to Julia, brows drawn. “Wait. You don’t love me?”

“Eh,” Julia said, lifting a single shoulder to her ear. “We can talk about it on the honeymoon.”

“Okay,” James said perkily. He smiled at the priest. “We’re ready now.”

But before the priest could commence the vows, Quentin grit his teeth, stalking forward. “No. _No._ Fuck you, whatever you are. I—I played by your rules and I did everything right and I _did the thing_. I came here and I said what I needed to say and now, you have to run away with me so I can go back home, so I can get go fix my real life.”

“If you don’t leave right now, Quentin,” Julia said, without breaking a sweat, without breaking her blithe gaze right into James’ dopey eyes, “I’m calling security. You already ruined my rehearsal dinner and I’m not going to let you ruin my wedding too. Get out.”

“Fuck _you_ , that’s not how this _works_ ,” Quentin cried, fingers trembling as he pulled at his hair. “I did it, I did it, I—oh my god, oh my god, this was my _only_ —”

“Quentin, stop,” Eliot whispered in his ear, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the tittering crowd. “Let’s go for a walk, okay?”

“El, I can’t—I _can’t_ —I have to get back—I can’t—”

“Come on,” Eliot urged, tugging him by the arm. “Honey, it’s over. We have to go.”

Quentin’s body leaned into him easily, though dragged behind him for a good few yards. They made their way back through the path, around the swans, past the yogis, past the cozy autumn scent of Pumpkin Spice Lattes™, and landed at a park bench right by a bright pink cupcake stand.

Quentin collapsed onto it.

“I have to get back,” he said with a choked sob, holding his head in his hands. “El, I can’t stay here. I can’t—I need to—”

“You need to breathe.” Eliot knelt in front of him, hands on his knees. “You just need to breathe, Q. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise, sweetheart.”

“You can’t know that.” Quentin let out a shaky breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Eliot said, swiping his thumb along the groove of his knobby knee. “I _know_ you, Q. That’s how I know everything is going to be okay. This is a set back, admittedly, but you are the strongest man I know. Your heart and your spirit inspire me every day.”

But Quentin shook his head, balling up the fabric of his velvet suit in his fidgety palms, cheeks lined with tears that Eliot ached to wipe away.

“Uh, no, you know the _other_ Quentin, the fake Quentin. You know this, like, successful thirty-year-old architect who’s photogenic and _charming_ and, uh, probably throws dinner parties with lots of shrimp and that cocktail sauce with, like, the fresh horseradish in it? Like, I’ll bet he does that, I’ll bet he has a horseradish grater or whatever, like a fucking show off.”

Eliot wasn’t sure what to say. “Q.”

“And—and—and I’ll bet he isn’t a depressed piece of shit and I’ll bet he remembers to write thank you cards and I’ll bet he’s nice to people all the time. Not like me. People act like they’re—like they’re lucky to know him. People are _proud_ to know him, to be _with_ him, just in his presence. And that’s just—that’s not me.”

Quentin closed his eyes and a tear slipped down his cheek.

“That’s not true,” Eliot said urgently. “This is you. It’s always—”

”Save it. You definitely aren’t actually here for me, you definitely don’t actually want _me_ ,” Quentin said, in quiet sucker punch. “You—whoever or whatever you are—you want who I was a day ago. That’s not me. I told you, I’m not—I’m not that guy. This is who I am.”

Eliot shook his head, and shook his head, and shook his head. “No. No, no, you’re just—you’re having a hard time right now, but you’re not—”

“I’m always having a hard time. I’ve more or less made my peace with that.” Quentin stared off into the distance, eyes glassy and unfocused. “But living in this hollow world where people _like_ me and where I’m successful in a—a conventional way and you’re my devoted best friend and then you tell me you love me, all while knowing it’s really all for this—this version of myself that I always wanted to be but never fucking will be? It’s—that’s torture, Eliot.”

”Q,” Eliot said, throat burning hot with tears. “No, sweetheart. That’s not—”

“So few people give a shit about me. I’m—a goddamn mess. I’m petty, and I’m cruel, and I can’t see anything past my own fucking nose. I’m—the other Quentin—he was—”

His face crumpled into his hands and he sobbed, while Eliot just watched powerlessly on.

“God, I mean,” Quentin sniffed. “There’s no way you still love me like this.”

Something bright and bizarre thrummed inside Eliot. His synapses fired, his heart raced. “Of course I still love you.” 

Quentin looked back up. “What?”

“None of that is why I love you. I love you because you’re—” Eliot swallowed. “Because you’re my Quentin.”

Central Park fell into stasis.

The birds stopped chirping, laughter stopped ringing, songs stopped playing. There was nothing but silence, nothing but those big brown eyes burning through his skin, tearing Eliot to pieces, until all that was left was an exposed beating heart. Every nerve ending on fire, every tiny tremble of his breath magnified into a shout, blood rushing in his ears like a symphony.

Eliot could feel every thump of his pulse on his tongue, could hear the whisper of the tiny voice that told him he _knew the answer,_ that told him Quentin _wasn’t_ full of shit, that Eliot _needed_ to stay by his side, that they needed to figure this out _together._ And as the syrup-slow seconds passed, Quentin smiled a crooked smile, closed-mouthed and lined with dimples, maybe a little hesitant and not a little sad. He always looked so damn sad now. 

Their eyes didn’t part.

“Eliot,” Quentin whispered. “Kiss me.”

Eliot’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“ _Kiss me,_ ” Quentin said, as he grabbed at Eliot’s lapels, pulling him in close. “I just—I think I need to see. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is—”

The world rushed back to focus, a bite of acid in sweet cotton candy. Eliot shook his head, wild and terrified, backing up into the grass on his knees. The air was electric and heavy, like lightning was about to strike, and though the sun shone bright, he swore he felt raindrops on his forearms. “Quentin.”

“Just—just one kiss, okay? I think I—”

Eliot swallowed hard, all his words thick like gravel. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I’m not,” Quentin said, shaking his head, hands chasing after Eliot, like he wanted them _on_ Eliot. “I swear, I’m not. I—god, I wouldn’t. I just—I’m hoping that—”

“You don’t get to do this,” Eliot said, vision starting to narrow, light and shadow indistinguishable. “You don’t get to—to treat me like your teddy bear when shit starts to go sideways, just so you can pack up for the next pretty girl that piques your interest. I may be pathetic, but I’m not that pathetic.”

His voice wobbled as he said it, because it was _bullshit._ If Quentin asked again, if Quentin told him he wanted him, he would have no defense. He would have no alternative but surrender. All he could hope was that Quentin would take mercy on him, that he would let this go, that he would understand that Eliot couldn’t be—

“I’m not your consolation prize, Q.”

It was the last sword and shield he had, steeled against the elements. But just as fast, it stripped away to nothing, as Quentin’s bright, teary eyes gazed into his own. 

“Baby, you could never be,” Quentin murmured, gently running his fingers down his cheek, trailing fire. “God, Eliot.”

“Quentin.” Eliot’s breath and resolve punched out of his chest. “Q, please—”

_Please, please, please..._

“Kiss me,” Quentin begged, one hand wrapped around the knot of Eliot’s tie, giant eyes pleading. “I can’t—I need you to kiss me. I need to know that you _want_ to kiss me. Please?”

Eliot would have laughed, if he could breathe. From the second he had met Quentin, there had been nothing that he wanted more than to kiss him. It was heart’s most secret desire, its most fervent wish, and now it was being handed to him, in the worst way, in a way that promised nothing good could come of it. 

Quentin was out of his mind. 

He had quit his job, he had abandoned the girl he claimed to love, his oldest friend had rejected him and gotten married, and Q believed he was—he believed he was _magical,_ that none of this was real, that _Eliot_ wasn’t real. Kissing him would be the worst decision he could make.

—It was only something a fool would do.

Eliot took a breath.

Slowly, like something out of a dream, he cupped Quentin’s face between his hands and pressed their lips together, soft but sure. Fireworks and shifting tides and magic exploded under his skin, pulling out an involuntary groan, as he wrapped himself closer to Quentin, ever nearer to his _Quentin_. If this was going to be his only chance, he was going to make it count. Eliot was going to show Quentin how he felt, how he had always felt, from the bottom of his soul.

His hand tangled in soft hair and Quentin _melted_ into him, like snow on a warm spring ground, falling off the bench and into the grass, into his arms. He whimpered, arms winding around his neck, fitting every curve of their bodies together. They were puzzle pieces, they were electric, they were home. 

Eliot parted his lips and their tongues touched, sparks swirling down his spine. “Q,” he whispered between their lips. “Sweetheart. _Quentin._ ”

He pressed a hand against his heart and smiled to feel it racing, just like his, like Quentin was _right there_ with him. They pressed closer and closer, until their bodies were flush against each other, lips moving slow and sweet like delicate spun honey. Their hands entwined, resting between their hearts. 

“Oh my god,” Eliot moaned out, as Quentin bit a tiny trail down his jaw to his neck. “Q, you have no idea. I can’t believe this is _finally—_ oh my god.”

“This is nothing new,” Quentin said, a fierce whisper into his skin. “You know that, El. Come on, you _know_ —”

When Quentin scraped his teeth along his earlobe, Eliot gasped, a first breath of air after drowning, his monochrome world suddenly vivid and bright. He pulled Quentin into a crushing kiss, bracketing his body with his arms and parting his lips with his tongue. Heart pounding—terrified that the spell would break, that the world would crash and burn—Eliot kept kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him, heedless of anything else.

And somehow, in some impossible way, it was true. God. It was true. It was—Eliot—

He _knew_ this. 

Eliot bit Quentin’s lower lip, tugging the way he _knew_ Quentin liked. Eliot wrapped his hand around the nape of his neck, squeezing with _just_ the right amount of pressure, coaxing out a vibrating moan. He lapped into his mouth and there was nothing left but the music, their bodies, and a dusting of stars. 

“I love you so much,” Eliot said, because he _had to_ , because he had no other choice, peppering hot and breathless kisses on his eyes, his cheeks, his jawline, his hair. “Please don’t break my heart.”

Quentin grabbed his face and pulled him down into a kiss, deep and messy and biting, the pads of his fingers on his cheeks scalding hot. “Never—I would—oh my god, _Eliot_.”

Eliot _knew_ this. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. It was in his soul. Quentin was part of him. Always had been, always would be, forever and—

“Fuck, I missed you,” Quentin whispered as Eliot pressed more featherlight kisses on his tiny nose, his sweet eyes, his perfect cheeks, his adorable chin. “El, god, I missed you so much, it was like part of me was _gone_ this whole time. I missed you, I _miss_ you so fucking much, I—”

_Thunder broke the clouds overhead._

_When the sound crashed, the boat rocked, a rough dip into the calm current, as skittish birds screamed and vibrated through the trees. The river's winding path narrowed as the light dissipated, covered in the cold shroud of an impending storm._ _Eliot tilted his head back, brow wrinkling at the moving sky. He steadied the canoe paddle over his thighs, so it balanced off the edge, though now the boat was moving on its own, from the churning current below. When a distinct and imposing white lightning bolt cracked between the parted darkness gathering above, he cursed under his breath. Jesus Christ._

_Fuck nature._

_Unfortunately, early that morning, Eliot had been conned into the excursion while in an acute blowjob haze, the most dastardly of all schemes. He had woken up with fluffy pillows under his head, silk sheets under his ass, a beautiful boy bobbing on his cock, and the singular elation of coming hard down Quentin’s throat. His fingers had twisted and tugged in soft hair, his loose lips had babbled things like, “God, god, god, baby,_ yes,” _like it was the first blowjob he’d ever received, and so he had been doomed from the start. All it took after that was Quentin crawling up his body, kissing him sweetly, and smiling._

_”Hey,” Q had said, voice deliciously hoarse, nipping playfully at his chin dimple. “Let’s do something weird today.”_

_”The weirder, the better,” Eliot had murmured, stroking Quentin’s hardness with a slick, fast hand. “Anything you want, sweetheart. Now come for me.”_

_And as it turned out, in Quentin’s ridiculous, lovely mind, “something weird” wasn’t so much kinky Fillorian_ _roleplay or sex magic that let them swap bodies or a run-of-the-mill fivesome as much as it was—_

_Canoeing._

_Canoeing, on the goddamn river, specifically the one that started as a pristine inlet within the Brakebills wards and ended up coursing out into the treacherous wilds of magicless rural New York. Canoeing, on goddamn purpose, like Quentin apparently used to do with his dad, when he was a kid, in a horrible sounding place called "the Poconos."_

_If any other boy, in any other situation, had so much as breathed a similar suggestion, they would have gotten knocked off the bed from the sheer force of Eliot's laughter. But for Quentin, Eliot had agreed—chuckling that well, he_ had _said_ anything, _ha, ha!—all while trying to keep in his heart in check at the pleased and excited smile he got for his cooperation._

 _(Though when Eliot had gathered a couple of bottles of wine, a picnic basket full of bread and cheese, and had quickly read a primer on how to paddle a fucking boat, he had definitely considered whether this was what it felt like to be_ whipped _.)_

_But the day hadn’t actually been all bad, even if it was spent out where the mosquitoes and mud lived. The sun had been shining, the water green and clear, and magic had helped ease the tricky learning curve of navigating new waters. And any time spent with Quentin was never bad, especially when that time wasn't marred with school responsibilities or social drama or either of their bullshit. It was like a tiny pocket of time, with good wine, good food, and good company, in a novel setting, in the brisk warm air of late springtime._

_Just for them._

_The day had been beautiful, so the quickly brewing storm caught him off-guard. Eliot swallowed roughly, fingers tapping along the his knees. A chill coursed through his bones as the air grew quieter and heavier, like a sharp knife behind every movement of the wind._

_“Q,” Eliot said, stretching out his name in a slow, foreboding emphasis. “How_ _far are we from campus?”_

_“Dunno,” came the distracted reply, followed by the scratch of a turning page. “Couple hours?”_

_Eliot kicked at Quentin’s ankle, the sole of his shoe sliding against the wet wood. “Well, when’s the last time you checked the map?”_

_“What map?”_

_Quentin bit his lip and squinted harder at the same passage he’d read a thousand times before, offering no more assistance, possibly still unaware of the change in the wind. Then he flipped the page._

_Annoyance rising in his chest, Eliot_ _kicked at his ankle again. “Hey, I’m not a fucking gondolier, can you help?”_

 _Okay, so if Eliot had any..._ minor _complaints about the day, it would be that while Quentin was as eager a bedmate as his wildest fantasies, he was apparently also a fucking pillow princess when it came to fucking outdoor adventures that were his own fucking idea._

_The entire time, Eliot had done all the goddamn work, even though they were both reasonably healthy, reasonably strapping young men. One would think that it would be a joint effort, but no, no, no—Eliot alone had to be the one to chart the course, to steady the path of the boat, to paddle against the current with his entire upper body strength, while Quentin drank wine, read quietly to himself, and occasionally said shit like, “Wow, it’s pretty out here,” with his paddle resting across his legs, untouched._

_Quentin was lucky_ he _was so pretty._

_“You sing enough to be a gondolier,” Quentin said, though he reluctantly put his book to the side. “Seriously, what map?”_

_Eliot stared at him. Quentin had one job. One._

_“The map I asked you to bring.”_

_“Uh, you never asked me to bring a map?”_

_“Yes, I did,” Eliot said, snapping his eyes shut. “I asked you to grab the map of the Brakebills portal entries. The one I keep on my desk.”_

_“You never said shit about a map.”_

_“I most certainly did say shit about a map.”_

_“I’ve never even_ heard _of this map.”_

_“No, no, you have.”_

_“When—?”_

_“When I fucking asked you to bring it this morning, Quentin!”_

_Their bickering flew back and forth as the river current got stronger, the wind got sharper, and the sky turned black. It was only when a blinding flash of lightning spiderwebbed across the sky did they get serious about their predicament. But by then, it was too late for anything more than damage control._

_“Shit, okay, fuck.” Quentin scrambled about under the seat, pulling out two orange life jackets. He tossed one to Eliot. “We could try that, um, that psychic spell? We just covered it in my mindfulness elective. It’s—it’s—it’s the one that senses your serotonin level but also any metaphysical gateways in the area if you—?”_

_“Just call them portals, Q,” Eliot couldn’t help but snap as he buckled unseemly plastic across his chest. “And that’d be a great idea, except we’re both extra shitty at psychic magic. Unless you were able to do it in class?”_

_“I mean, not_ technically _, but—”_

_“There’s no way you can do it here for the first time, not in these circumstances. Not even safe to try. For now, I’ll haul our asses to shore and we’ll figure out from there, okay?”_

_Eliot didn’t actually wait for an answer, pushing the boat through the churning rapids with a wild burst of protective energy._ _But his fear fucked him up, making him overshoot the landing._

_  
_ _The boat ran aground with a loud, splintering crack. Thrown from their seats, they rolled onto the mud-sand-rock mixture of small shore, dug into stone and overgrown grass. The ground crunched under their thudding weight and Eliot hissed when he scraped his elbow on a larger rock. He was bleeding a little, but as he stared at its jagged and slick edges in the sudden downpour, his heart clenched with a near miss. It could have easily been one of their heads._

_Quentin let a long string of muttering curses from a short distance away, his palms landed flat on the ground. Eliot scurried over on his knees, white trousers already soaked through and grayed from the dirt, until his arms wrapped around Q to bring him up to a seated position._

_”You okay?” Eliot cupped his face, scanning for injury. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”_

_His trailed off as Quentin nodded, eyes lucid, and shakily stood with Eliot’s help. Water fell down his face and hair in torrents, the thunder and lightning coming as fast as the shock cold rain. As soon as they pulled themselves up to their full heights, Quentin took his hand and tugged him down, pushing up to press a hard, fast kiss to his mouth. It nearly sent Eliot tumbling backwards in a stupor._

_”We need to find shelter until this passes,” Quentin said, firmly walking back the way the boat had come. He didn’t let go of Eliot’s hand. “I think I saw a cave or something this way.”_

_There was, in fact, a cave. It was claustrophobic and_ _dank and muddy and covered in sharp rocks, but it had a dry and flat enough clearing for two Magicians to make do. Eliot was in no position to complain._

_As soon as they pulled their feet out of the ice cold river puddles, Eliot got to work in getting their wet clothes off. Winters as a bullied kid in Indiana taught one a few things, including how to prevent a stealth hypothermia after getting thrown in the local reservoir on Christmas Eve. Drenched clothes sped up heat loss to dangerous degrees—basic physics._

_Thankfully,_ _despite the already obvious drop in their body temperatures, magic flowed easily, from adrenaline and anxiety alone._ _Quentin made a small fire with sparks from his hands and no kindling; Eliot covered the ground with an invisible blanket, soft like a quilt, not quite physical work but not quite an illusion either. It wouldn’t do shit wrapped around them, but it helped make it more comfortable._ _The fire crackled and they huddled in for warmth, holding each other for what felt like hours, as the storm outside raged on._

 _”I’m sorry,” Quentin whispered,_ _tiny, and tremulous, into the crook of Eliot’s neck. “This was—this was a terrible idea. What a disaster.”_

_Eliot lifted Quentin’s wrist to his lips and kissed his pulse point. “We might be indoor cats. Worse fates.”_

_Quentin snorted a laugh that quickly turned a shiver. Eliot frowned, ran a hand down his back, concerned at the coolness of his skin. “Baby, you’re still—”_

_”Yeah, I have, uh, recurrent hypothyroidism? ‘Cause I take lithium? Like, it’s not bad, but it fucks with my body temp sometimes and—”_

_“Jesus Christ.” Eliot brushed his lips against his temple, short and swift. “Okay. I can help. I have more energy now.”_

_”I know, but, like, I can handle my shit. I didn’t want you to—it’s not—”_

_Eliot kissed him again, this time a lingering press of lips to ease the chattering of his teeth, to make him shut the fuck up if he was just going to spout nonsense. Quentin’s breath caught as he kissed him back, almost enough heat between the slow, soft glide of their lips to light the world on fire._

_Almost._

_Murmuring under his breath, Eliot tucked his lips into Quentin’s rain-and-river wet hair, until his fingertips flowed with a glowing warmth. It was a difficult healing spell, one that most professors wouldn’t have recommended fucking with in any sort of weakened condition, especially if it wasn’t your discipline, but Eliot didn’t give a shit._

_He started at the nape of Quentin’s neck, dragging his fingers down to his back, along his spine, around his broad shoulders. He took his time, making sure the magic stayed steady, that his own hearth wouldn’t run too low. But mostly, he took his time because he always took his time when it came to Quentin. He took his time, so he’d always remember, just_ _in case this time was the last time._

_One of them was sure to be._

_The rain made its way through the cracks in the rock and soil, white roots dangling from the muddy ceiling. Eliot took a shaky breath, drunk with the cool skin under his hands. Intoxicated and overwhelmed_ _with the way Quentin trembled as Eliot touched him, leaning into his desperation to warm every inch of him with his magic and hands and lips._

_When Quentin let out a whimper, Eliot huffed a breath, fingers moving to cup his cheeks, eyelids only half open. “Okay, sweetheart?”_

_“Feels so good,” Quentin whispered, rocking into him. “Your hands, they’re so—oh my god.”_

_They were both hard, breathing fast against each other’s lips as the storm raged outside._ _Eliot made a choked off sound, tangling his fingers into his hair and massaging his scalp._

_“You feel so good,” he said, letting their lips slide together for a fraction of a second. “Touching you feels—you’re so gorgeous, you have no idea.”_

_“You’re beautiful,” Quentin said, just like he had that first night, on the last night of Eliot Waugh._ _Eliot swallowed, tipping their foreheads together._

_Quentin brought his fingers up to touch Eliot’s lips. Eliot kissed the pads of his fingers, sucking slowly on the tips, free hand sliding through the bramble of dark hair over their cocks. Quentin was stiff in his hand and already wet, easy to stroke. He pushed Quentin back and curled their naked bodies together by the fire._

_They touched each other softly, unhurriedly, fingers skimming skin and tongues laving across hidden places. In the glowing heat of the fire, Eliot rolled over, sinking his weight low onto Quentin, wrapping his arms around the top of his head._

_”Eliot,” Quentin gasped out, winding his legs right around his waist. Eliot nodded, agreeing and agreeing and agreeing, while he kissed him with every bit of tenderness and_ ache _he carried with him every single second._

 _Without conscious effort, without any breaking point, they slowly rolled their hips together, setting a steady rhythm. Beneath him, Quentin thrashed, skin a watercolor of pinks and crimsons, keening from his throat and rocking his head back, flushed lips falling open like he was lost forever in a sea of Eliot. And the sight of him, the little sounds he made, the velvet friction between them, it_ burned _through Eliot, like magic, all the way down to his molecules._

_“I want you,” Quentin thrust up at Eliot, over and over again, hot and slick. “Eliot, I wanna come like this.”_

_“You will,” Eliot promised, grinding his hips down hard and fast, bracketing his arms around his head. “Gonna make you—you’ll feel so good. Always. My Quentin.”_

_Their chests touched. Their lips brushed together with every thrust, every slide between their sweat-slick bodies. Quentin buried his hands in his hair and Eliot wound his arms around his neck, burying his face in the crook of his neck as they moved together. T_ _he only sounds were the roar thunderstorm, the crackle of the fire, and their hard breaths echoing off the walls._

 _“El, El, El,” Quentin started to gasp, his fingers tugging at the back of his hair, his head rocking back. “Eliot, baby, I’m gonna—oh god, l’m_ yours _—I’m gonna—”_

_But Eliot came first, fiercely, unexpectedly._

_He collapsed onto Quentin with a long broken-off sound, high-pitched and breathless, jumping like a shot between the walls. His mind spun with an array of bursting colors, body_ trembling _as_ Quentin _tensed under him too, teeth biting into his shoulder, and thunder boomed overhead._

_The rain drizzled through the cracks in the stone, as they settled by the fire. They sat side-by-side in silence, watching the golden-orange flames crack and pop in the cluster of magic Quentin created._

_Quentin pressed his warm cheek to Eliot’s arm and sighed, one edge of his mouth tugging up. His hair was dry now too, though full of tiny knots and matted flat all up the back, sticking out like points of a star. Normally, Eliot would find it very funny, very endearing, and not a little hot, that Eliot could thoroughly wreck something so delicate, so_ pure, _as Quentin Coldwater’s hair. But right now, all humor lodged in his throat._

I’m yours.

_It was the kind of shit people said during sex. Eliot had certainly said his fair share of sweet nothings to total nothings in the past, if the impending orgasm was intense enough. It was spell beyond magic, drawing out fervent lies. Just because Eliot meant every word he said to Q, and a thousand more he’d never say, didn’t mean—_

_Besides, Quentin didn’t even know what it was to be_ Eliot’s _. Not really. It wasn’t a gig anyone would sign up for with full consent._

_Even Margo hadn’t known—couldn’t have known—that the first time the two of them had teamed up to seduce an unwitting boy into their bed, she was actually inviting a parasite to burrow under her skin, to crawl through her veins and muscles, all to make a home in her beating heart. It had happened so fast that neither noticed until they were inextricable._ _But at least with Bambi, there had always been some measure of—_

_Symbiosis._

_Or perhaps an_ understanding, _an alchemy that would have made the fraudulent Flamel weep. Margo famously needed no one, but she wanted Eliot. She was patient with Eliot. She knew Eliot, to the extent that anyone could, and never questioned him, never pushed too hard, never dug deeper than he was willing or able to share. She had never even asked why Eliot hadn’t shared Quentin with her, the boy who he had now easily fucked more often than he had fucked anyone in his life. It annoyed the shit out of her, that was obvious, and Eliot was psyching himself up for when they would, because he_ wanted _to share with Bambi, he_ wanted _his life to be hers, but—_

_But Quentin was a complication._

_Early on, Eliot had always joked that he wanted to devour Quentin. And the truth was, if he let himself, he would. Quentin deserved—_

_“You know, uh, I think I get it now. What people mean when they say they can_ hear me thinking. _I always thought it was a stupid turn of phrase, but—” Quentin tilted his face up at Eliot. “All good?”_

_”Yeah,” Eliot lied easily. He squeezed Quentin’s shoulder. “Just figuring out the best way to get out of here once we can.”_

_“O Captain, my Captain,” Quentin said with a low chuckle. He kissed down Eliot’s arm slowly, brushing his lips along the dotted line of small dark moles, like he was praying to a constellation._

_“Q,” Eliot whispered. “There’s something I need to tell you.”_

_Quentin sighed, breath feathering out all along his skin_ _. “Hm?”_

_There was no good reason to say it._

_But in the fire, in the storm, with the warmth of Quentin all around, it was the only truth he knew anymore. It was the spark that lit the inferno, the first toppling domino that would crumble foundations. His heart burned with need, desperate for the assurance that would never come. That should never come. It was just—_

_Eliot had just loved him for so long now._

_He probably fell for him that first night they fucked, the first time Quentin called him_ beautiful _and kissed his mouth like he was precious. Or maybe it had even been earlier, when Quentin had stared up at Eliot like he was the sun, like he was the very embodiment of magic itself, instead of just an alcoholic delinquent on a tedious errand from the dean. And Eliot had wanted to prove that he could be that, wanted so badly to prove that he was_ worthy _of that look in his eyes, even though he had pushed, and pushed, and pushed the desire down, unwilling to look it in the eye. Unwilling to admit he felt it or felt anything at all._

 _Quentin deserved a good life. He deserved someone he wanted—someone he chose—not just someone who seduced him in a closet at a party and then happened to stick around for awhile, for the sex and companionship that were better than loneliness. He deserved someone_ _who could give as much as she took. He deserved someone who had their shit together, who could help manage Quentin’s shit, wasn’t always selfish and needy and so desperate for scraps of affection that he could actually see past the point of his giant nose._ _Someone who didn’t hold back, someone who wouldn’t destroy him the second they stopped._

_Someone who made him happy. Really happy._

_So Eliot exhaled—_

_“Ah, I think I_ did _forget to ask you to bring the map. I was going to, but then you looked so pretty in my pajama pants when you brought up the coffee that I got distracted. Sorry.”_

 _Quentin stared at him, brows gathering into a scrunched line over his eyes. After_ _a moment, he burst out laughing._

_“Holy shit, you’re such a dick,” Quentin said, pushing at Eliot a little, though his arm wrapped snug around his waist. “You were, like, so self-righteous about it.”_

_“To be fair,” Eliot said, his own laughter vibrating the words as nuzzled their noses together, “nine out of ten times, it would absolutely have been because you weren’t paying attention during the logistics chat.”_

_“Such a dick,” Quentin murmured, as he tugged Eliot down to him. His heart stuttered as Quentin held his face, lips moving soft and chaste against his own, a kiss for the sake of it. The firelight lapped against their bare skin and, for once, the world was too perfect, too beautiful. Just for this fleeting moment._

_“You’re the most fun I’ve ever had,” Quentin said when he pulled away, with so much conviction, radiant and gorgeous. His arms were wound around Eliot’s neck, his fingers were tangled in his hair, and he was_ smiling, _eyes dancing with the glow of the fire. “El, I’m so—You make me_ so _—”_

_Eliot didn’t let him finish._

_He kissed him harder, running his hands all along his body, the warming spell resurging through his touch, with the bone-deep need to keep him safe, dry, and sheltered, in a way that was far stronger than any magic._

_The air smelled metallic and musty, like electricity and mud. Eliot broke the kiss to bite up Quentin’s jawline, curling his tongue in his ear. He smelled like whiskey and firelight and sunscreen, tasted like sweat and ink. Like dried booze, tacky and too sweet. Like, Quentin, Quentin, Quentin—_

* * *

_That night, after they got back safe and sound, Eliot decided to throw a party._

_A_ wild _party._

 _The bass thumped and bodies writhed on the dance floor, smoke and mirrors dazzling the darkened corners. With the magic hour well past, Eliot slung drinks at the bar, showing off his fanciest moves and giving each cocktail an extra shot or two. Or three. Fuck it, the_ _more the merrier._

 _Quentin had gone off with Margo at some point because Margo liked dragging him around like an untrained puppy, and last Eliot had seen, the two of them were laughing in a corner with Alice Quinn. And Alice was drunk enough to smile that one toothy smile that probably made Q’s dick twist into a heart shape, but that was fine. It was fine. Eliot had spent their time apart snorting a few lines of something called moonsparkle and catching up with an old friend and his eyeballs were vibrating and everything was fucking_ _great._

_A bead of sweat dripped down his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, grinning up as he handed an ice cold glass to his patiently waiting guest._

_“One sazerac for the gentleman,” Eliot said, letting his fingers lightly graze against the back of the large waiting hand. “Heavy on the whiskey, of course.”_

_Mike McCormick took the glass with a nod, sipping it with a rueful chuckle. “Gotta say, I kinda hate you for teaching me to like things other than beer. Do you know how much a good cocktail costs in the city? It’s ridiculous.”_

_“I do like to leave a lasting impression on my former lovers,” Eliot said with a wink._

_Mike quirked a brow. “_ _Former?”_

_Eliot made a noncommittal sound as he reached across the bar cart, grabbing a small knife and cutting into an orange. His heart raced, thumping like a drum against his sternum. Something acidic churned in his belly, rising up his throat to choke him where he stood._

_—He probably just needed to do more moonsparkle._

_It wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong. In fact, it was healthy. He was being so fucking_ healthy _and mature and self-actualized. It was self-care. It was fucking_ self-care _to remind himself what his life really was, what his life would always be. He was Eliot Waugh, he was an alpha dandy, the Prince of Brakebills, the show stopping mixologist. The life of the party. And this was that life, this was his life, he would never be anything else, could never be, no matter how hard he tried. And Quentin wasn’t—_

_Mike smiled over a sip of his drink. “Delicious, baby.”_

_Eliot wanted to shrivel into a hollow gray husk of himself. “I aim to please.”_

_He hadn’t expected to see Mike tonight. They hadn’t actually seen each other since early September, when Mike had been on campus for some seminar for a few days, BQE. They’d had fun. Nothing life changing, but they’d blown each other in the library, fucked each night in the giant guest suites near the dean’s office only alumni keys could open, and had even gone out to dinner in the city, at some gastropub in the Village. It had been nice. Being with Mike was always nice, easy and uncomplicated, especially once Eliot had gotten over his early infatuation. They were friends who sometimes fucked._

_Just like him and Quentin._

_Eliot chopped hard into a bunch of tarragon, crushing the tiny leaves to bits. He had no idea what the fuck he was making._

_“Well, your cocktails_ are _my second favorite reason for visiting Brakebills,” Mike said, moving in closer, so they were only inches apart. He ghosted his fingers along Eliot’s hip and his angled blue eyes glinted up at him._

_Eliot tried to smile back, but it felt more like a wince. “And the first?”_

_But Mike was undeterred or didn’t notice, as he leaned in, golden beard scratching his cheek. “Drop the_ tails. _”_

 _The meaning hit Eliot like a bullet. He_ _laughed, honking loud, half-manic. “That’s sincerely the worst line I’ve ever heard, Mike.”_

_“Don’t care if it’s bad.” Mike grinned wolfishly. “Just care if it works.”_

_Eliot let out another laugh, but it came out more like a scratching huff, a scream trying to escape from his throat. His trembling hands skittered across the surface of the bar, knocking over a glass of orange juice. Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth, cursing under his breath, and grabbed a towel, sopping up the mess. He could have cleaned it up with his telekinesis, but he felt—off. Unsteady and depleted. It probably wasn’t worth the risk._

_So Eliot wiped without looking up, the point of his jaw jumping._

_“You’ve been MIA lately,” Mike said, crowding into his space. He was two inches too tall, his lips reaching his ear easily. “I came to visit a month ago, but I couldn’t find you.”_

_Eliot cleared his throat, didn’t look up. “Ah, well, I’ve just—I’ve been here.”_

_”Maybe,” Mike said, stroking a thumb along his waistband. “But your guard dog nearly nipped my nose off when I asked after you. Said you’re spoken for now. True?”_

_Eliot froze. ”My guard dog?”_

_”Yeah, Margo,” Mike said with a shrug. Eliot picked up the knife again, squeezing it tight in his fist. “Anyway, you were nowhere to be found and I figured I shouldn’t step on any toes, in case someone did manage to domesticate you. But—”_

_Eliot slammed his hands down on the cart. It rattled under the force of his weight. Mi_ _ke’s eyebrows jumped and Eliot gave him as disarming a smile as he could muster. “Um, Mike. Look. The thing is—”_

_“What the fuck are you doing here?”_

_In three short clicks of stilettos on hardwood, Margo stood in front of them, arms crossed and face sour. She tossed her hair back, lip sneered in a perfect point as she regarded Mike as though he were the shit on her shoe._

_”Speak of the devil,” Mike said, grinning with a beaming Texan charm. “Always nice to see you, Margo.”_

_Margo flicked her eyes down him once, before turning away, thoroughly dismissing him. She cut her glare over to Eliot, melting steel beams. “What are you_ doing _?”_

_He didn’t miss the flat accusation in her tone, but Eliot just zested a lemon. “Making drinks for our party guests. Obviously.”_

_Eliot threw his chopped ingredients and juice and a random shot of liquor into the shaker. He grit his teeth and thrust it up and down with all his might._

_Margo pressed her lips into an unimpressed line. “_ _Maybe you should go to bed before you do something stupid, honey.”_

_”Aw.” Mike jutted out his lower lip. “Well, if Mama says it’s bedtime, then I guess Eliot better wave bye-bye to all the—”_

_”Listen, you shitpile,” Margo said, voice low and hoarse. “If you think I would hesitate for one goddamn_ second _before I ripped your—”_

_Eliot poured his mindless concoction into a martini glass. “Perhaps you should just enjoy the soirée and mind your own business for a little bit, Bambi.”_

_Margo clamped her jaw shut._

_The tips of her cheeks darkened and her chin shook in one tiny tremor, before she licked her lips and cleared her throat._

_”Hm,_ perhaps,” _she said, long lashes fluttering down as she examined her perfect manicure. “I mean, shit, you’re certainly shaping up for a fan-fucking-tastic night already, all without my help. Good point. Hope you enjoy, El.”_

_Eliot ground his teeth, heartbeat going erratic. “Margo.”_

_She snatched the fresh drink from off the cart and took a long sip, eyes burning over the rim. “FYI, this tastes like shit. You should fix that.”_

_Margo wiped delicately at both sides of her painted mouth, put the unfinished drink back down, and spun on Manolos to saunter away. Eliot lowered his palms onto the cart, staring a long line down to nothing._

_Mike clapped him on the back. “Okay, well, while she cools off, how ‘bout I go grab us a little more of that nose candy? Good shit.”_

_No one had called it ‘nose candy’ since 1985. Mike was corny. Eliot had once found it sort of charming, but now it made his stomach curl into a silent scream._

_”That sounds lovely,” Eliot said, restarting a cocktail from scratch. “Thank you.”_

_Mike elbowed his ribs good-naturedly, then went off in search of Josh Hoberman, in search of more moonsparkle cocaine. And Eliot’s life centered itself back on the tracks. He scanned over the ingredients he had on hand and decided on an orange Paloma. Those were fine._

_He focused on the feel of the cool rough orange peel under his fingers, the scent of caramelized grapefruit wafting to his nose, the solid weight of a shot glass in his palm. He took a shot of the tequila they had on hand, just to taste it, and shook his head at its too-sweet astringency. So he turned around to grab the mezcal instead, popping the cork stopper to sniff its smoke and earth. But when he turned back around—_

_Quentin was standing there._

_”Jesus!” Eliot yelped, jumping back so hard the booze splashed all over his vest. He cursed under his breath and zapped it away with a quick tut, breath coming out in pants._

_Q snorted. “You good?”_

_When he looked back up, heart racing, Quentin greeted him with a cheeky sidelong glance and a small wave. His hair was tied back in one of his dopey little buns and he was wearing his soft red flannel._

_Eliot’s heart slowed just enough to_ twist.

_”I’m fabulous,” Eliot said, grumbling under his breath. He put the liquor bottle down and rearranged the cart, trying his best to get a fucking grip. “How can I help you, sir?”_

_“Uh,” Quentin said. “Margo said you were looking for me?”_

_Eliot touched the tip of his tongue to his canine, huffing a_ _laugh. Bambi always had a knack for throwing gauntlets with impact. He cleared his throat, moved a shot glass from one side of the cart to the other. “Just wanted to make sure you were having a good time.”_

_”Okay, uh, that’s bullshit, but whatever.” Quentin shook his empty glass. “Can I get a reup since I’m here?”_

_“Of course.” Eliot spread his fingers across the surface of the cart and tried for a relaxed smile. “Anything catch your fancy?”_

_“Yeah,” Quentin said, low and rumbly, eyes locking on his. “Something sweet.”_

_Eliot’s spine fizzed like popping champagne, a torrent of bubbles all the way down. He laughed nervously, shifting his tools around one more time._ _“I’ll make you a Caipirinha then.”_

_Quentin blinked into a frown. “Uh. No, uh. I was trying to flirt with you? I don’t literally want—”_

_“Sorry, I’m just super backed up here.” Eliot clinked ice into the cocktail shaker. “I really do hope you’re enjoying yourself tonight though.”_

_“I am,” Quentin said, the words trailing off into uncertainty. “But are you sure you’re—?”_

_Eliot jumped again. A hand—the wrong hand—pressed down hard between his shoulder blades, a boozy chuckle reverberating in his ear. Like he hadn’t even been gone, Mike leaned fully into Eliot, whispering something about Margo’s renowned bitchiness, and smiled up at him with bedroom eyes._

_“—I swear, eventually, she_ _won’t hate me and we’ll throw a damn party,” Mike said, sliding his arm around Eliot’s shoulders. He patted his shirt pocket. “But I got the goods whenever you’re ready.”_

_Eliot stood stone-still._

_“Uh, hi?” Quentin said with a harsh little laugh. His arms slid together across his chest. “Who’s this, El?”_

_Eliot took a steadying breath. “Ah. Right. Sorry.” He licked his lips, gesturing a pitiful hand over toward Mike. “Q, this is—this is my friend, Mike. He’s an alum. We got to know each other when I was a first year.”_

_Quentin smiled too wide. “Gotcha.”_

_“Good to meet you,” Mike said, holding out a hand. “And you are—?”_

_Quentin didn’t shake his hand. He didn’t even look at it, or at Mike, and he didn’t say a damn word. He just tilted his head at Eliot, in a clear challenge. Eliot’s pounded in his chest, fingers flexing and clenching in bursts along his pants seam._

_“Mike,” Eliot swallowed, voice shaking audibly. “Ah, this—this is my friend, Quentin. He’s wrapping up his first year.”_

_Mike smiled politely at Quentin. “Hey, nice, congrats. I know that always feels—”_

_“Are you_ fucking _kidding me?”_

_Quentin’s black eyes bored into Eliot, hands balled into fists at his sides. Eliot flinched, feeling it like a lash._

_“Q, I—” Eliot’s throat swelled with shame, burning with a thousand words he knew he would never actually say. “I—I’m not—”_

_His cowardice cut him off and Quentin’s breathing got louder, more labored. Mike pulled his lip down in an exaggerated cringe, letting out a low whistle. He sipped his sazerac._

_“Your_ friend _? A first year?” Quentin shook his head, knuckles going white. “Are you—are you being serious right now?”_

_“Uh, oh,” Mike laughed, holding his hands up as he backed away. “Did another little one get too attached to you, El?”_

_Eliot shot Mike one of his most threatening glares, the kind that made cities quake, and his ex-whatever at least had the decency to drop his eyes down to the ground. But his smirk remained, which was the death knell._

_“Is that it?” Quentin whispered, a feather shattering stone. “Did_ another _little one get too_ attached _to you, El?”_

_The ground was unstable, a thousand knives slashed through the air. “Quentin, look, maybe we should talk about this in private? After I—”_

_Quentin flared his nostrils, eyes bloodshot and watery in a way that Eliot want to die. But before he could swallow down his pride, before he could restart, Q slowly reached over to the cart and grabbed two highball glasses. He held them high between his fingers, right over the hardwood floor—and let them crash to the ground, shattering upon impact._

_His stony eyes didn’t move. “Fuck you, Eliot.”_

_Eliot’s first instinct was to apologize. To throw himself down on the ground and grab at his knees. To beg forgiveness while soaking tears into his ink-stained denim._ _But his first instinct had never been his friend._

 _He thought of moon eyes at Alice Quinn. He thought of dropping everything like it was on fire, the first second Julia came calling. He thought of_ you’re the most fun I’ve ever had _, like that was a compliment, like that wasn’t the same bullshit every boy who had ever mattered to Eliot had ever spewed, right before they ditched him for something or someone better. And Quentin_ deserved _better. Truly. No one deserved more than him, no deserved better than him. Not in the whole world._

_But Eliot still had his goddamn dignity._

_Eliot pursed his lips. Flicked his eyes down to the mess. ”There’s no need to be a child about this, Quentin.”_

* * *

The wind shifted.

Eliot blinked.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Things aren’t usually worth caring about.  
 _With some limited, but very important exceptions?_

Very limited.

— **The Magicians**

* * *

The first thing Eliot noticed was the blanket of grass under his knees.

It was soft.

Really soft, like a memory-foam mattress, one of those ones that was a dream on which to sleep, but a nightmare on which to fuck. And the grass itself was _beautiful,_ rolling and perfectly green, with distinct and uniform blades that glinted in the warm golden light. It was like someone had lovingly put an Instagram filter on just the grass. Which was sweet, if odd.

Then the next thing Eliot noticed was that he was wearing a lot of cologne. A lot.

—Like, a _lot._

After that, the next few seconds would be best described as a dizzy delirium and a cold splash of lucidity, all at once. The realization—the free-fall of knowing—was slow and heavy, staggering Eliot backwards and stilling his heart. The world glitched out with an overload of information. He felt like he was going to be sick.

The shoddy backstory splintered and cracked, irreparably separated like gusts of sand in a windstorm. There was no childhood estate in New Hampshire. No liberal blueblood parents who doted over their little Ellie, dressing him in seersucker and letting him dance with boys on the beach. He hadn’t gone to Sarah Lawrence, he didn’t own a bubblegum pink moped, and he had never conned all of Fire Island into believing he was Tina Fey’s extremely handsome and even gayer nephew. He wasn’t a fucking architect.

Eliot was a 25-year-old grad student and infinitely older than he had been moments ago.

He fell back, blinding lights flying all around, as everything swayed and jolted. Everything was too dizzy, too bright, too unreal, turning his stomach and catching his in his throat. Memories flew back at a rapid pace, shit he hadn’t thought about in years, all the shit that made up _Eliot Waugh_ , the bad and the worse and the hideous. He pressed his hands to his chest, trying to stay steady, trying to pass the fuck out, as he searched for something to anchor him.

Something like—

_Quentin._

Quentin, who was kneeling in front of him, hands still holding Eliot’s tacky lapels, eyes closed and lips parted. He was well-kissed and rumpled, in the way Eliothad been lucky enough to see hundreds of times by now. He was wearing a truly ridiculous outfit, and his hair was cut too short and the strands were styled too neatly. His skin was glowing, like he actually ate vegetables and not just an endless buffet of sour gummy worms and Taco Bell, and he didn’t have dark circles under his eyes, and as his eyes opened, he was _smiling._ He was smiling, dreamy and dazed, at Eliot, from kissing Eliot, like Eliot hadn’t—like Eliot hadn’t—

“Oh my god.” Eliot’s hand flew to his forehead, clammy palm mixing with the sweat dripping from his curls. “I’m sorry—this is—I just—”

“El?” Quentin touched his face, sliding his palm around the curve of his jaw. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Eliot swallowed roughly, arms like lead at his sides. Quentin was still achingly close to him, the chests sparking together with each rise and fall of their breath. He wanted to look away, couldn’t fucking _stand_ to look at him, but his eyes didn’t obey. It was Quentin—his Quentin—and he was—

Eliot ducked in quickly, kissing him hard. Quentin gasped at the contact, holding his face between two hands and surging into him.

They made out frantically, in the middle of a fake Central Park. Eliot undid Quentin’s bow tie, tossing it to the side, and Quentin pushed their jackets off, until they pooled around their knees in wrinkled heaps. They never pulled away, not for a second, because Eliot thought he might _die_ if they ever did. Behind them was the shining reservoir and beautiful swans and a sweeping soundtrack, a lovely orchestral symphony in deep conflict with the messy, biting, possessive way they were trying to crawl into each other in broad daylight.

Eliot pushed Quentin back onto the the pillowy ground, crowding him with his body, hands skimming everywhere. He didn't give a shit about the onlookers, the fucking extras in a fucked up illusion, didn't give a shit about the squawking and scandalized swans. All he cared about was Quentin opening up to him, deeper and more frantic, tongue curling and sliding through his mouth like an inferno.

Fingers tangled in his hair, teeth biting at his lip, legs twining through his with a bone-deep need to be as close as possible. Eliot wasn't going to waste a second of this, a miracle last ditch chance to touch the man he loved, the man he'd probably lost forever, once whatever the fuck was happening wore off and reality set back in. He was going to take what he could get, he was going to let himself have this, just—just one more time. _One more time_ and then he'd let him go. He swore it.

But as Eliot plunged deeper into the doomed sea of Quentin Coldwater, an eerie prickle shot up his spine. Something was—

Something was off.

Quentin squirmed underneath him, rocking into him in just the right rhythm, his thumb tracing hot little circles in the secret spot on his neck, the dirty, _dirty_ trick that always got Eliot raring to go, zero to sixty, no matter what. His blood was rushing wildly through his veins, his limbs were weightless, his head was spinning, but Eliot wasn't—he wasn't—

Eliot broke away, sitting up straddle Quentin's hips, breath coming fast. "Are you hard right now?

"I—what?" Quentin squinted up at him with dazed eyes. "Yes? I'm definitely—uh, wait, what's happening?"

Sure enough, the fabric Quentin's stupid red velvet pants were tight across the inseam, pulling taut over the swell of his cock. Eliot rolled off him, pulling his knees to his chest, hugging his shins. 

His body didn't work.

Wherever he was, whatever this spell was, his body didn't work right. His body didn't work, and he smelled like the Macy's perfume aisle, and he was craving a Starbucks™ Iced Caramel Macchiato with Extra Whip and Drizzle, and the sky was something an amateur would call _crystalline azure_ , and it was the most horrible thing he had ever seen in his life. His hands shook, but he didn't want a cigarette. What the fuck.

He jerked into himself when fingers briefly touched his shoulder. Quentin pulled his hand away, like he'd touched a hot stove, eyes dark and worried under his wrinkled brow. "El? Hey, are you—? Is it—?”

Quentin shook his head, like he wasn’t sure how to finish his question. Like maybe he was scared to finish, to ask what he obviously already knew. What he _had_ to know.

“Um," Eliot said with a hollow laugh. "So, wild theory, but I—ah, I think I might have fucked up, Q.”

Quentin’s big brown eyes slowly lit up from within, luminous with a burning hope, one that burned Eliot alive. He touched him again, softly this time, just a tender brush of his fingers along the lines of his cheeks, while his eyes moved across Eliot's face like he was looking at the best thing in the world.

“ _Eliot._ ” Quentin let out a hushed breath. “Holy shit, it worked. It’s you.”

Eliot lips wavered in a smile, his vision swimming. It was like he was looking through a heat mirage in the desert, shimmering and refracting light. Well, through the _illusion_ , since the light here wasn't real. None of this was real, except for him and Quentin, for some reason. His throat went choking dry, gag reflex engaging, and he swallowed a rush of acidic bile back to the pit of his stomach. None of it was real.

—Especially not that kiss.

Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth. They were too smooth, more like porcelain veneers than bone. He imagined he could blind someone if he ever smiled directly at the sun. His lips were still tingling with the feel of Quentin's mouth, as warm and intoxicating as always. But while Quentin had ended up kissing Eliot, he hadn't started by kissing _Eliot_. He had kissed a fantasy, a joke, someone who only existed in a crude Crayola rendering, in rainbow colors.

Quentin had kissed a Palm Springs Ken doll.

He had kissed an Eliot who was slavishly devoted to him, who practically wrote goddamn sonnets in his Lisa Frank spiral-bound diary, with pathetic little doodles in the margins. Hearts and soft penises in squiggles all around " _E + Q 4ever"_ or maybe a couple of stick figures kissing—ever chastely—next to a practiced signature, written over and over again, all for when he'd finally get to be _Mr. Eliot Coldwater_. He had kissed a shallow stereotype, a vapid moon-eyed dope wearing a sequined tank top. An Eliot had no life of his own, one who never had sex, and was never anything but a shoulder to cry on and an encouraging word in his sweet friend's ear.

That Eliot was everything Eliot had never been, would never be, yet the world insisted on forcing him to emulate. For their comfort, for _their_ conceptions of what a man like him should look and act like. What a man like him should be.

But Eliot knew that wasn't all it was.

Quentin had also kissed an Eliot who would follow him to the ends of the world, no questions asked. An Eliot who always followed his first instincts, an Eliot who threw himself at Quentin feet, who somehow wasn't terrified of the power Quentin had over him, who even seemed grateful for it. An Eliot who had kissed Quentin back with the whole of his bleeding heart, easily told him he loved him, and begged him to stay. An Eliot who was everything the real Eliot had never been.

Would never be.

“Frog prince at your service,” Eliot said slowly, not moving his eyes from the cinematic horizon. There was a golden retriever playing frisbee with a beautiful redheaded woman, just waiting for a meet-cute. He could feel Quentin shift next to him, the weight of his intense eyes on him, the fidget of his uncertain fingers.

"Um. Are you okay? It's—it was hard for me at first. Uh, well, the whole time has been hard, but the first few minutes were especially like, um, it was like I remembered everything shitty all at once? And not just—you know, everything that happened last night or whenever that was, but I mean, in _my whole life_ and that was tough to—"

"I'm fine," Eliot said flatly. He wrenched a hand into his hair, paused. “What the fuck is this shit?”

He tried to push his fingers back, but the strands just wouldn’t fucking move. He crunched a particularly unyielding curl between his thumb and index finger. He shuddered at the ungodly sound it made. Jesus.

Quentin was quiet for a long time. And since Eliot certainly wasn’t going to be the first to say anything else, he crunched another curl.

Then another.

It was strangely satisfying.

“It’s a spell,” Quentin finally said, voice strained but even. “One that put us in a romantic comedy movie. I’m apparently the, uh, _star_ , for some goddamn reason and so I think that means I need to—”

“No, I know, you’ve explained yourself thoroughly. I agree with the premise, if not the solution." Eliot scanned his eyes across the perimeter of the illusion, searching for cracks or clues. "I actually meant my hair. There’s way too much product in it.”

In the park, there were no tourists, no oddballs. No one was smoking weed or letting their mangy, drooly dog bark hideously while running off-leash. Everyone wore bright colors. Everyone was _white._ Everyone held red balloons and laughed over Starbucks cups. It was also a lot smaller, with the Plaza and the Dakota in sight of Columbus Circle and the zoo. Like a movie set. Or Epcot.

“Gee," Quentin said sharply. "Sorry, I didn’t realize we were jumping right into the heart of the matter.”

“I’m getting my bearings,” Eliot hissed, holding up his hands in mock-surrender as Quentin glowered at him. “Give me a fucking second.”

He cracked his neck to the side, sliding his fingers into a Mann Reveal. It gave him nothing. 

“Yeah, I already tried that. You were there.”

Eliot bit back the cruel instinct to remind Quentin that he was the consistently stronger Magician. That maybe—just maybe—he would be able to see something Quentin couldn’t. “Always worth another shot. Never know.”

Quentin barked a harsh laugh anyway. “Right, okay. Good to have you back, El.”

"Am I supposed to just sit here?" To the point, Eliot stood, twiddling his fingers through the air. "And thanks, but it didn't seem like you minded the sweet and cuddly me all that much. You two got awfully cozy."

His fingers vibrated, tiny pinpricks of magic bearing down on the tips. He could feel _something,_ but it wasn’t—it wasn’t an illusion. Not exactly. And Quentin was right—it wasn’t a Scarlatti Web or anything similar. It wasn’t an effect of magic on the nervous system. It was something darker, more intense, more recherché. The lines of the energy were slanted and sliding the wrong way, yet with perfect symmetry.

“You are un _fucking_ believable.” Quentin pushed to stand alongside him, veins in his neck red and popping. “I, like, broke the spell, but you’re _pissed_ that I—”

“First of all, you didn’t break shit, we’re still here. Second of all, I’m not pissed. That would be childish." Dick thing to say, but he was who he was. Good for Q to remember. "I obviously appreciate that your Disney kiss broke me out of my flamboyant cage—”

“You’re welcome.”

“—but now that you mention it, I do find it a _little_ odd that you got all hot and bothered by the sexless wonder that was my genre caricature. But hey, who am I to judge? I once got fucked by one of the horns of a three-horned satyr.”

Eliot felt like he was turned inside out, like the very heart of him was on display for all to mock. Guilt gnawed at his spine, fangs sinking into his vertebrae. This was his fault. He knew it, he could feel it. The whole thing had Classic Eliot Waugh Fuck Up written all over it. He just couldn’t remember how. He couldn’t remember why. 

"You _what?”_ Sir Quentin the Guileless screwed up his face. "That's—okay, well, to be clear, the only reason I kissed the other you was because I thought, you know, maybe it was _you_ under there and it would—um, you know. And then, like, it _did_ , so I think we have to deal with that."

"Probably a hypnic jerk," Eliot said with a shrug. "I'm very touch sensitive."

Quentin thrust a finger out at him. "I know I made a joke yesterday, but this is _not_ like _Inception_. I have thoroughly investigated whether it's _Inception_ and it's _not_ , okay? It's _not_ fucking _Inception._ "

"Eh.” Eliot smirked. "Seems like it could be _Inception_."

"It's _not._ It's—" Quentin ran his hand back through his hair. "Look, okay, yeah, did I kiss you without, like, knowing for sure if you wanted me to kiss you? And while knowing that it was maybe your body and maybe not your mind in control of your body? Yes, and I'm sorry for that, but I couldn't figure out how else to approach it, when I was trying to—"

"Jesus Christ, Quentin," Eliot closed his eyes. "I don't feel _violated_. It wasn't like—you didn't really kiss me, right? You basically just... kissed another dude. Which is fine. Obviously."

Eliot pulled up another Mann Reveal, just to have something to do with his hands. He could feel discerning eyes on him, could hear a lip suck between teeth, an angry shift of feet. A burst of applause broke the silence, as a handsome man twirled a beautiful woman in the air, her new engagement ring sparkling in the sun.

“Yeah. It is,” Quentin said quietly. “I’m free to kiss whoever wants to kiss me.”

Quentin Coldwater was well adept at spiking several deadly barbs in one short sentence, complete with subtlety and layers. It was quite the hidden talent.

Eliot swallowed. "You sure are."

"I mean, it's not like I have a boyfriend, right?"

...The subtlety was usually short-lived.

Eliot closed his eyes. “What exactly was I supposed to say? _Hey Mike, this is Quentin, my longterm de facto exclusive hook-up with undefined emotional—_ ”

"Yes! Or I don't know," Quentin clenched his jaw. "It wasn't even—if it was just that you had just called me your friend, I wouldn't have given a shit. But—but—but you were trying to get _rid_ of me, you clearly didn't want me around, and it was because you wanted to fuck some—"

A white-hot dagger twisted in his chest. "That is not—"

"—some guy, who, uh, Margo told me you've fucked a bunch in the past. And, you know, I get it, I get that it's—um, within bounds, but like, I don’t know. A little warning would have been nice."

When Quentin turned away, hugging himself tight, Eliot hid his trembling hands in his pockets. "Margo shouldn't have—"

"No, don’t. She was just—she kinda sucks at comforting people, but she was just trying to comfort me. She was all like, _Mike's a cock, El's an idiot, they'll bang it out and then he'll get his head screwed back on right._ Which was—you know, I get it, she was _trying_ , but it wasn't—" 

"I have no interest in Mike," Eliot snapped. He was going to _kill_ Margo. "That's not what this was about."

Quentin flared his nostrils. "So you admit it was about something? The way you were acting?"

"That’s not what I'm saying. I just mean—"

“Okay, so right now, what you're saying is that we just went from spending every single spare second we had together to _hey, this is my buddy, Quentin_ for, like, shits and giggles?”

“I called you my friend because that’s what you are. Don't act like that came from nowhere,” Eliot said calmly, through the steel of his teeth. “You and I have exchanged zero promise rings.”

“It’s what you called Mike too,” Quentin lodged. “Do you feel the same way about Mike as you do about me?”

Eliot’s terrified heart squeezed in his chest. “We—we had never discussed anything else. You can’t expect me to—”

“Right. Stupid Quentin and his stupid—”

Eliot wanted to _scream_. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. “Not that I don’t relish the idea of airing out our shit while trapped in an elaborate Garry Marshall production, but none of this is helpful right now.”

Quentin opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but the muscles fell slack. The fight slowly seeped out of him as he stared around at the glaringly bright sound-stage they were trapped on. He collapsed back down on the park bench, a hand covering his eyes. “Goddammit. Yeah, okay.”

“The good news is that I can feel something,” Eliot said. He stretched his hands wide, fingers swimming through electric cotton. “Can’t you?”

“Nope,” Quentin said, popping the consonant, hands wringing in his lap. “Shocker.” 

It was like electric cotton, but the kind that bit faces off. A deeply sinister layer beneath the surface, something _angry,_ but Eliot couldn’t decipher much beyond that. “Too bad Penny’s not here. I think he’d be able to read this.”

“Fuck Penny.”

“But that means it must be breaking down. We’re close, I think. But I’m not sure how to get over the next hump, what else we need to—”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

Eliot pulled in a breath, knees turning to water. But once again, Quentin didn’t seem to hear anything. He just threw his hands up, pained eyes still staring at the ground. “I think we stick to the plan. We need to, uh, see the plot through. But now, instead of me interrupting the wedding, since that was a total bust, I think _you and I_ have to—”

Panic bells rang loud through Eliot’s chest. “Maybe the other me would do whatever the fuck you wanted, but I know that line of thought just prolongs our time here.”

“Except there's been only _one_ consistency in what brings you and I closer to getting out. The way I got my memories back, the way you got your memories back.” Quentin heaved a breath and leaned forward on his elbows. “El, I think we have to—”

“Going along gives into the bullshit trappings of whatever the fuck this is,” Eliot argued quickly, as quickly as he fucking could. “That’s how you get sucked in deeper.”

“Based on—?”

“Every theoretical magical text, common sense, my experiences with LSD?” Eliot shrugged up a shoulder. “I’m saying there has to be a more direct solution, one that cuts the magic off at the head. Fuck all the other shit.”

“I thought you were all about finesse.”

“When it comes to booze or clothes or sex, sure.” Eliot shot quick glance at Q. “But when it comes to magic, I prefer a hacksaw approach. This shit will break because I _will it_ to break.”

“I must have skipped that chapter of Popper.”

“Okay.” Eliot stood up and clapped his hands together, _ignoring_ Quentin. “What we need to do is retrace our steps. If we don't know how we got here, any solution is just a shot in the dark. So, last night or whenever it was. We had our little tiff and then—what? What did you do?”

Quentin mouthed silently for a second and blew air out his cheek. “I don’t know, it feels—time is weird. But I stormed off, got followed by Margo for awhile. Then she ran off and I ended up at Julia's.”

“Did you do any spells? Voodoo doll rituals? Try to curse my dick off?”

 _This is your fault, this is your fault, this is your fault, you_ know _this is your fault, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, this is—_

_You know the answer, Eliot._

“Uh, I thought I might have, but when I think back, all remember is just some run of the mill crying over a boy and a lot of gin chugging,” Quentin said. “But it's not impossible Julia did something after I passed out. I mean, it’s Julia."

"Good point," Eliot murmured, though his mind was racing. Gin chugging. Gin.

Gin.

_Gin, gin, gin, gin—_

"Um, okay, so then what _—"_ Quentin sniffed hard. "What did you do?”

Eliot furrowed his brow in thought. “I kept drinking too.” Gin? No, not gin. “I also did some more—it was like coke, but not. Called moonsparkle."

"Moonsparkle?"

"Liked the name," Eliot shrugged. Gin. "Shit got hazy after that. I think I went upstairs and I remember thinking—something.”

Quentin sighed into his hands. “Helpful.”

“There was—an apparatus." Eliot squinted, like he could see the shadows of his vague memories if he just tried hard enough. "And I was _—_ I was speaking Arabic?”

Gin.

Gin.

_Gin._

“You failed Arabic,” Quentin said without looking up. “So that can’t be right.”

Eliot spun around to glare at him. “I absolutely passed Arabic.” 

“Nipple clamps don’t count as comprehension.”

“Well, maybe that coke was a study drug. Who knows? Plus, I just reupped my game a few months ago for the Encanto regalo and—”

“Oh yeah, your orgy trip. Cool reminder.”

“—and it was the same spell,” Eliot said slowly, the world coming to a standstill. “It was the same goddamn spell. The one that I did for—holy shit. I think I— _fuck_ , I must have—” 

Not G-I-N.

_D-J-I-N-N._

Eliot had summoned a fucking Djinn. 

Correction: Eliot had summoned a Djinn while drunk off his ass, and then Eliot had ended up in shiny, happy world where he was a dickless gay stereotype and Quentin was a dreamboat architect with the whole goddamn world laid at his feet. The implications of _that_ were far-reaching and probably worthy of some examination, maybe on a therapist’s couch, but Eliot couldn’t be assed at the moment. 

“Oh, no,” Eliot whispered, hand covering his trembling mouth. “Oh, _shit_.”

Quentin stared at him. “El.”

_“Eliot, I swear to fucking god,” Margo begged, pulling his hands away from the bottle, from the swirling black mist. “Did you learn nothing from Aladdin?”_

_“But I’m not Aladdin, I’ll never_ be _Aladdin, Margo,” Eliot mumbled, vision crossing as he tripped over his feet and fell against her. “I’m, like, the monkey. The cheeky little monkey that steals shit. You know? Like, shit, I’ll bet that monkey fucks.”_

 _Air and light spun in a vortex, howls of wind rushing past his ears. He had fucked up. He had ruined everything, he had fucking destroyed everything by being a selfish dickhead, a cowardly worm, a—a goddamn lush. He had lost him, he had_ lost _his_ Quentin _. Just like he always knew he would. Just like he always fucking_ knew _—_

 _Eliot had taken something fragile, something_ precious, _and smashed it to dust in his hands._

 _“We can do it tomorrow, baby,” Margo said, wrapping her arms tight around his waist and pulling him toward—something. “We’ll work out the details so it’ll be foolproof. We’ll have endless cash or our own planet with cocaine volcanoes or whatever the fuck you want. But you are not in the right state of mind, you will_ not _be precise enough, and you will get_ fucked the fuck over. _That’s a promise_.”

 _But Eliot had to, he had to, he had to fix this. He had to make it better. He had fucked up, he had fucked_ everything _up. It wasn’t for him. He didn’t deserve shit. It was Quentin—Quentin deserved everything. He deserved_ everything _that Eliot could never give him._

_He deserved the whole goddamn world._

_Tears ran down his cheeks, the sting of smudged kohl burning the inside of his eyelids. His rings made a clanking and clattering sound as his hands shook, and shook, and shook—_

_“I’m sorry, Bambi,” Eliot hiccuped out, jumping across the bed with long legs. “I have to do this.”_

_“Eliot!”_

_He was much faster than Margo, thanks to his long limbs. He slid across the silk comforter, grabbed the bottle in the crook of his elbow, and popped the cork._

_Electricity flickered, hard and fast, zapping through the air, and a handsome man in a red silk vest stood before them before Eliot could curl into a fetal position. His Djinn smile was wide and eerie, his eyes were too white, and he inclined his head, with a low greeting in Arabic._

Your wish is my command, master.

_“Make him happy,” Eliot gurgled out, the taste of too much gin and whatever that fucking insane cocaine had been sliding back up his throat. “I just—all I want—I’m a piece of shit, but I want him to be happy. Just make him happy, let him be happy. I wish for a world where Q can be happy, please, I—”_

_“Jesus deep dicking Christ, Eliot, that is exactly the kind of shit I—”_

Eliot fell back onto the grass, heart tumbling in his chest. 

Oh, no. 

Oh, _shit._

The wish had—

_Fuck._

The Djinn had taken him literally. 

A _world_ where—

Fuck.

And that made sense, because that was what Djinn wishes did. They took the literal path every time, customized to the wishmaker. And in this case, it had done the one thing that Eliot had always known would make Quentin _happy_. It had turned him into the hero he had always wanted to be, the shining knight in shining armor, the protagonist of the quest. It should have been in Fillory or Middle Earth or whatever the land in the Narnia books was called. He should have been a magical little imp, a sweet-natured dark boy with a lion’s heart, swishing through sword fights and saving princesses and presenting magical artifacts to kings for handsome rewards he would reject every time.

If Quentin himself had made the wish, that was definitely what he would have gotten. But unfortunately for Quentin, _Eliot_ had been the wishmaker—

—and there was only one kind of hero Eliot knew shit about.

“I take it back!” Eliot shouted to the sky, desperately calling to whoever was listening. “I take it back, okay? So end this now.”

The sweet-smelling air mocked him with its unchanging silence.

“Who are you talking to?” Quentin moved quietly beside him, looking up with that disarming combination of concern and wariness he wore near constantly. Eliot flicked his fingers out dismissively—he had this handled—and growled, sneering up a lip at the sky.

“Did you hear me? I said I take it back. I know how this works.” Eliot sniffed hard, wagging a finger in the air. “I _control_ you, you have to do what I say.”

“Eliot.”

Eliot kicked at the air. “I take it back, motherfucker!”

His feet landed with a thud against the ground. The bricks of the sidewalk lit up in a dizzying pattern of fun and bright lights, a smiley face grinning blankly up at him. But otherwise, nothing else changed. The cinematic world still carried on, the chirpy laughter of the beautiful extras reaching a fever pitch, like a kettle boiling over.

Quentin blinked slowly, dark eyes fixed on his face. “What did you do?”

_I fucked up._

“Um, so. Uh? So remember the Djinn from Encanto Oculto? I told you about that, right?” Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose when Quentin nodded slowly. “Well, I—I—I made another one. I did the spell by myself, when I was already feeling a little—um, off? Which probably crossed a few wires and gave the Djinn more power.”

That was what some drunk asshole at Encanto had told him, when Eliot had been crying into his shoulder over Quentin probably fucking Alice Quinn at the South Pole. Hadn’t exactly been a life highlight, but it was a helpful context now. Most likely, the Djinn was toying with him. It was toying with _Quentin_. It was more like a Scarlatti Web than the fulfillment of his wildest desire. 

Quentin set his jaw. “Isn’t that a cooperative spell?”

“Doesn’t have to be.” 

“Safely?”

“Debatable.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ El, you could have—”

Eliot shook his head, turning away from the burning worry in Quentin’s eyes. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want to see it. 

“Anyway, um, it worked and I—I made a wish,” Eliot shrugged, heart beating hard. “And now we’re here.”

“So, what, you wished to live in a romantic comedy? As a stereotypical gay guy?”

“I fucked up, Q,” Eliot whispered again. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know how—it twisted the wish on me. It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be _selfless_ , for once in my goddamn life, and it was supposed to be—”

Quentin held up a firm hand. “What the fuck did you wish for?”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

“Um,” Eliot laughed manically, staring up at the sky. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, okay, so—there’s—there’s also a voice I keep hearing? That... might be relevant too, no?”

Quentin closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

”It keeps saying that I know the answer. But—I mean, it was a Djinn wish, so why would it—?” Eliot clutched at his statue hair, ripping at the strands with a loud snapping crunch. “Why would I need—?”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

Eliot growled at the sky, ”Shut the fuck up!”

“Okay, okay, well, uh—” Quentin stood up, jolting into a pace. His eyes never left Eliot, softened in their concern. “Uh, so I’m not really that up on the current theory surrounding Djinn spirits, but I believe there are certain instances when the circumstances are right, like, um, following an electrical storm or if the caster is—you know—” 

Quentin gestured vaguely with his arms and Eliot sighed. “Fucked up?”

”Weakened or intoxicated,” Quentin inserted quickly. “You know, not in a normal frame of mind. Um, anyway, in those cases, I think I’ve read that they can embody, like, certain emotional and logic centers—or what some people might call a _soul_ —in order to determine something the wishmaker needs to know. So—so—so they can use a botched wish to teach a moral lesson of some kind.”

”A moral lesson,” Eliot said flatly. “Well, I’ll be sure to ace that.”

Quentin threw his hands down. “What did you wish for?”

”You know what,” Eliot burst forward, clenching his hands at his sides, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we should get you to JFK, you can jump the security line, and declare your love to random girl getting on a plane to Europe and—”

“It’s not about a girl, El,” Quentin said. “It’s—uh, it’s pretty fucking obviously about us. And the _real_ us, not our rom-com versions of whatever. ‘Cause, like, otherwise, why would I have gotten my memories back right before the other me could tell the other you that he loved him?”

Eliot stopped moving, the tiny part of his heart that still felt unnervingly like his happy-go-lucky counterpart soaring into the light. “What? He was— _what?_ ”

”Yeah, duh,” Quentin said, scrunching his nose. “You didn’t get that? Based on the context?”

”I guess I—” Eliot let out a breath, heart picking up speed, toes tingling. “I hadn’t thought about it yet.”

“Well,” Quentin shrugged, avoiding his eyes again. “And then, uh, I kissed the other you, which is usually the—the end of a rom com, right? But instead of taking us back—we’re just both stuck. It thwarted both the usual endings. The love declaration and the big kiss, neither were enough. They weren’t the answer.”

”Then it must not have been about us,” Eliot said, throat tight.

”Or it wasn’t _us_ before. Not really. Now it is.” Quentin stopped, staring down at the ground. “And I’m not saying it has to go like a romantic comedy does. I mean, my favorites don’t exactly end—um, like, with _The Graduate,_ what most people remember about the ending is the final shot, right? It’s not exactly...happy. This doesn’t—I’m not trying to force you into anything. It can have a complicated ending, not a conventional one. It doesn’t have to be happily ever after.”

Eliot laughed. “No,” he said, laughing harder. “No, it does. For you, it has to be happy. That’s the whole goddamn point.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

”Shut the _fuck_ up,” Eliot growled again, cutting his eyes up to the trees.

Quentin considered him for a long moment, before letting out a sad sigh and pushing a hand back through his too-short hair. It looked good on him, but it was wrong.

”Look, El,” he said, voice hoarse, like each word took everything in him. “I don’t care what you wished for, okay? I know it’s not—I don’t have illusions that this world reflects reality. I mean, it is, but it’s more like—a funhouse mirror. It obviously twisted whatever you wanted into something you never intended.”

“You can say that again,” Eliot said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

”Right. So, like, if this—if this Djinn is trying to teach you a lesson about responsibility or—or fidelity, then I say it can go _fuck itself_ , okay?”

Eliot looked at Quentin through a small slit in his fingers. “What?”

”You don’t need to have a life full of the usual trappings, El. If—if romance isn’t your thing, if monogamy isn’t your thing, like, there is nothing wrong with that. You aren’t wrong for that not wanting that. You should be allowed to live however the fuck you want to live without being punished for it.”

Eliot slid his hand all the way down, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “Huh?”

“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot,” Q said, staring down at his shifting feet. “You’d been clear and I was just—you know, being me. Which isn’t an excuse. I know that. Or, uh, I’m _learning_ that. But I know you care about me, I know I’m your friend, and that is—that’s enough for me. I mean, I’d still like to have sex, if you want to. It's, uh, that's—not something that I want to stop. Unless you do, which is fine, but I think it's been good so. Um. But I can—I won’t try to make you be—”

Eliot shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Quentin clenched his jaw, the muscle rolling as he turned his face away. "You don't have to spare my feelings, okay?"

"I'm not," Eliot said, brows gathering together. "I genuinely have no idea what's going on."

"You obviously wished for, like," Quentin sputtered out a laugh, shoulders scrunching up to his ears, "I don't know, freedom or something. No responsibilities, or a carefree existence. Which I get! I know that's what you want, I've always known that's what you want, and I'm sure I made shit awkward, like I always do, and I know you don't want to hurt me, so it just—it happened."

"Jesus," Eliot muttered, pinching the corners of his eyes. "No. Q—"

"But because you fucked up the spell or because you were drunk and high or maybe because of that weird storm we got caught in earlier, the Djinn was able to take control and it decided to teach you a lesson. It—it made you a stereotype, it put you into a story and wanted to force you to, like—" Quentin shook his head, cutting himself off. "But maybe I was wrong. Maybe this isn't about structure. Maybe this is about saying _fuck you, motherfucker_ to structure and living your life the way you want to live your goddamn life."

"Quentin."

"Take control back, Eliot," Quentin said, eyes burning and arms trembling. "No one controls you but you, right? This shit will break if you _will it_ to break and that's—"

"I can't!" Eliot burst out, throwing his hands up and his heart on the ground. "I can't, because it's not about me, it's about _you_. I made the wish on your behalf."

Quentin paused mid-righteous sentence, lips falling into a frown. "What?"

"I'm a supporting player in my own goddamn story here, Q," Eliot groaned, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "It's about you, sweetheart. I can't—if I can't unwish this shit, then I don't think there's anything I can _do_. I can't—" He stared up helplessly, tears stinging his eyes. "Shit, maybe that's the answer. Maybe I need to learn that I can't control everything."

Eliot slumped over, not quite falling, but losing all his poise. His poise was so much goddamn work.

Quentin took a long, slow breath. “What did you wish for, El?"

“I wished for you to be happy.” Eliot admitted quietly, staring at a perfect beam of sunlight on a perfect patch of grass. “I—I asked for a world where you could be happy.”

The park was suddenly empty. All the people faded away, the swans sank into the ground, all the big red balloons floated into the sky and out of the atmosphere. The music stopped playing. Only solitary breeze rustled through the grass, lonely and whistling.

“Then you’re an idiot.”

The words came out flat. Harsh. 

“Old news,” Eliot managed to say, managed to shrug. “Care to elaborate?”

Quentin had sat back down on the bench at some point, the strands of his short hair flopping over his brow, like he was trying to hide behind them. He picked at a hangnail on his thumb. Or, rather, he picked at the space on his thumb where a hangnail would be, since there were no hangnails in this world. Just like how there were no bathrooms, no pigeons, no graffiti, no garbage, no rough swear words, no litter. Nothing grotesque, nothing profane. It was awful.

“You’re an idiot because it was a waste of a wish. That’s why we’re fucking stuck,” Quentin said, monotone, not looking at Eliot. “I’ll _never_ be happy, El. Not, uh, not the way people want me to be. Not in a way that makes me more palatable or—or easier to live with. Or easier to love.”

Panic sprang up in Eliot’s chest. “ _No_ , Quentin, that’s not—”

“I think I’m always kind of going to be—this.” Quentin twisted a hand in his hair. “Like, I’ll never own a horseradish grater, okay? It's not in the cards.”

Tenderness spread through Eliot’s chest, making him desperately wanting to hold Quentin to him. “No one gives a shit about horseradish graters, Q. You don’t have to be—”

Eliot would never _want_ him to be—

“It’s a metaphor. I like to talk in metaphors. They're easier than—" Quentin swallowed hard, closing his eyes. "I'm saying that I'm never going to be that guy. The guy your wish turned me into. That's, like, impossible.”

“Yeah, well, _I’m_ never going to own a moped,” Eliot said, the words tumbling out against his will. “I’ll never be everyone’s favorite pop song bopping, gossip mongering, ultra fabulous shopping buddy. I’ll never be the guy who plans a wedding for only the cost of the happy tears in his eyes. That's who my wish turned _me_ into, if you recall. In world where you're supposed to be happy, that's who I apparently am."

"I wasn't happy," Quentin snapped. "How do you not get that? Even when I was him, when I was the best version of myself, I was fucking _miserable._ I was working at a job that consumed my life, my boss treated me like shit for no reason, my sort of girlfriend was an undercover reporter who was trying to sell a scoop on me to The New York Times, I was growing apart from Julia, I had kind of a bad relationship with my dad—"

"Wait, what?" Eliot blinked. "I think I missed the reporter bit."

Quentin waved him off. "There was lots of bullshit. My point is that you were—you were kind of the only bright spot in my entire existence here, but it wasn't enough. And that's—that's kind of who I am. Sometimes shit won't be enough. It's usually not." 

Eliot was a piece of shit. Maybe that was the answer the Djinn was looking for? “I’m sorry, Q. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

”It’d be weird if you did,” Quentin said, rubbing his hands up and down his face. “And, like, I get it, I get how this manifested. For once in my life, I was actually _everything_ I’ve ever wanted to be, everything I always berated myself for not being, everything everyone has always hated me for not being. You know, uh, successful and likeable and with my shit together, right? But I could never fucking hack that because I’m too fucked up. So it makes sense that your wish would give me that and it probably speaks to a deep internal flaw within myself that I couldn’t enjoy it, that I still sought something I couldn’t have, one way or the other, rather than finding peace within my actual options.”

”I honestly don’t think it was all that deep,” Eliot confessed. “I think I knew you want to be a hero, but I’m functionally illiterate outside of Wikipedia entries, so the id of my soul plopped you in a rom com instead of an epic fantasy.”

”Not enjoying reading as a leisure activity isn’t the same as being illiterate.”

”Thank you, Mr. Webster.”

Quentin snorted at that, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. Eliot felt a bit of encouraging warmth bloom in his chest and he braved sitting down next to him on the bench. His hand ached to touch him—an arm over his shoulders, a hand on his knee—but he didn’t risk it. Initial mauling aside, he hadn’t earned that.

“When you said you were seeking something you couldn’t have, were you talking about the other me?” Eliot frowned. “Because, Q, that was definitely—”

”Yeah, except the second I almost did, I was me again and you weren’t you.” Quentin smiled grimly. “I like metaphors, but that one kind of sucked.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

”Quentin,” Eliot said, shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s—”

”This world is beautiful and perfect,” Quentin said, sighing as he gazed over the stillness of the quiet dimension. “But wherever you go, there you are. I think that’s your answer, El.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

”Yeah, I get that,” Eliot said, ignoring the voice. Fuck the voice. “I think—I think we both experienced that. What it’s like to be everything you’ve ever wanted, but not being able to escape—yourself. It sucks.”

“Um, yeah. It does.” Quentin rubbed at his temple. “But, uh, wait, when—when did you feel like that? On another drug trip or something?”

”Now,” Eliot said, a soft whisper. The sun peeked through the trees, bursts of white and gold in a dazzling crown. “Here.”

Quentin blinked. “What?”

“I felt the same way,” Eliot said again, a little breathless, shocking himself with the ease of the confession. “Except the part where my dick barely functioned, which was some Hays Code bullshit, I felt exactly the same way about this place, Q.”

“I don’t understand.” Quentin wrinkled his brow. “You—you want to be like the other Eliot? But, like—”

“That guy?” Eliot let out a choked sound. “The other Eliot, I mean? He was—he got to live the way I always wanted. For my whole goddamn life. Maybe he had some terrible taste, but he was—he was effervescent. He was larger than life. He got to be _vibrant._ ”

Eliot smiled a little, thinking of that terrible apartment. It could have been something out of his younger self’s vision board, if his younger self had been allowed to do things like make vision boards. It was awful. It was beautiful. Hello, world. It’s Eliot.

“You’re—” Quentin shook his head. “No, El, that’s who you _are._ Already. You’re the most—”

“My colors got dulled a long time ago, Q.” Eliot stared down at the too-green grass, saturated in beams of unnaturally golden sunlight. “They’ll never go back. So it was—it was nice, to get to live like that for a little. Even fleetingly.”

The wind picked up, bringing a bit of autumn chill with it. Gooseflesh raised on his forearms, even under the layers of the tux shirt.

Eliot hugged himself.

“Yeah,” Quentin said quietly. “Yeah, I can—I don’t think I was, uh, ever destined to be vibrant, per se, but I think—I think I know what it means to be dulled.”

Eliot knew that was true. He hated that Quentin knew what it was like, that Quentin knew it too. He would have given anything to take on that burden for him. Anything, and yet—

“And the other guy was a better person than me. He let himself care, openly and wholly, in ways that fucking terrify me, will always terrify me. Like, god, he told you he loved you without a second thought.” Eliot huffed a laugh. “Who does that?”

Quentin sighed. “Not like I’m a ray of sunshine compared to the other Quentin.”

“The heart of you was there,” Eliot said, his throat tight, even as a small smile came out. “He was maybe, you know, _more polite_ than you. Sometimes. Occasionally.”

Quentin snorted.

“But from what I remember,” Eliot said to the grass, “you were both brave and generous and _good_ in so many of the same ways. In the exact same ways. Where I’m just—I’m just a piece of shit.”

“You’re not a—”

“I’m a huge, _huge_ asshole, Q. You know that better than anyone.” Eliot gripped at the seams of his pants, tightening his knuckles around the fabric. “Like, I’m not going to go along with every idea you have, just because I want to see you get those wrinkles between your eyebrows that only show up when you have an idea. Because, ah, while adorable, honestly, sometimes your ideas are _terrible_ and I’m not going to pretend they’re not.”

He could have sworn he saw another tiny smile jerk up on Quentin’s lips. “You summoned a Djinn while black out drunk.”

“I know,” Eliot said, whispering. “But I also—come on. You know that I—I drink too much and I’m probably not gonna stop, and that I throw parties where people regularly get way too fucked up but I’m always more worried about admin finding out than anything else, and—and that I can be such a mean son-of-bitch, and that I’m petty and I’m jealous, and that I’m _broken.”_

Eliot took a deep breath, pushing through his fear. If he had to face his demons, if he had to look at every fun mirror version of himself, if he could never watch another Nora Ephron film again after all this—

He needed to make sure it was worth it.

“I’m not sure I’m capable of being a good person like you are. I’m not a lot of good things. I never will be, not because I don’t want to be, but because—I’m a lot. I’m bullshit stuffed in a designer bag. And _that’s_ what brought this on. Not you, sweetheart. Never you. You’ve been—”

Eliot closed his eyes.

“I cannot tell you how sorry I am for all this, Q. For everything, for yesterday, for—I didn’t wish for you to be happy so you could _be_ better or to make you feel like you’re not living up to something. I wished for you to be happy because you _deserve_ better.”

“You can’t, like, wish away clinical depression, El.” Quentin sniffed, voice thick with tears that stabbed Eliot right in the gut. “I’ve already looked into it and—”

“I’m an asshole,” Eliot said again, arms falling heavy at his sides. Heart breaking. “Because I wasn’t even thinking about that. I wasn’t thinking about the layers and layers of ways life has fucked you over. I should have, but I didn’t. All I could think was that you deserved to be happy because—”

Eliot dug his fingernails into his palms. He tried to breathe.

“—because you deserve better than _me.”_

That was it. 

Every path Eliot found for escape, every hypothetical he used to torture himself in his head, every flight of fancy came down to that simple truth. Eliot was a fuck up. He would never be good enough for Quentin, not as anything more than someone who could help him fuck away loneliness. Being his friend was all he could hope for, once it was over. It was so much _more_ than he ever should have hoped for. Anything Quentin gave him was a miracle. 

Eliot had been selfish.

”You’re an idiot.”

This time, the words were soft, almost whispered. Quentin was looking right at him, eyes blurred, bloodshot and swollen. He blinked and all the tears tumbled down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said softly, voice choked over his tight throat. He blinked back a stinging heat in his eyes. “Look, I’ll—I’ll fix this, okay? I swear, Q, I’ll figure this out, I promise, I’ll—”

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but back at Brakebills, I’m—uh, I’m actually the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

Eliot stopped, taking a breath. “Right. Right, I know. Because—magic and…”

“Not only because of magic, El,” Quentin said, devastating eyes soft on him. A tear splashed down his cheek. “Come on.”

“I don’t—” Eliot shook his head, chest like a balloon, skin tingling. “Q, I—”

“Every single thing you said about yourself is true,” Quentin said slowly, raggedly. “You’re an asshole, and you drink too much, and you’re kind of mean sometimes, and you’re the best person I know. So, like, I don’t know how this ends, but I do know that all I want is to be part of your life, okay? However you’ll have me. That’s what’ll—you know.”

Eliot stopped, stunned in place, balloon chest swelling, floating away. “What?”

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Quentin whispered. Eliot couldn’t breathe.

“ _What?”_

“I—oh my god, Eliot.” Quentin shook his head. “You’re—I just—I love you so much. I’m sorry.”

”You never said,” Eliot blurted out stupidly, like a child, heart upside down. “You never said anything. I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

_You know the answer, Eliot._

”Would it have mattered if I had?” Quentin worried his lower lip between his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “I mean, it’s, like, the power of least interest, right? I’ve always—I’ve always cared the most, about everything in my entire life. And, like, you know—you’re you and I’m me, I’m obviously the loser between us and—”

“ _No_ ,” the word pulled out of Eliot, dragging his ribs and still-beating heart along with it. “No, no, fuck. That’s not—I thought you wanted someone else or something else or—”

“No one else,” Quentin said softly. “Nothing else. I’m sorry if I ever made you think otherwise.”

“No, don’t be sorry, but—” Eliot could _breathe_ “—but Q, I didn’t—”

Eliot was about to argue again that Quentin hadn’t _told_ him. That Quentin had _never_ said, and so there was no way Eliot could have known, that if Eliot had known—if Eliot had _known_ , then he never would have—he _never_ would have—

It came like thunder through the clouds.

_You know the answer, Eliot._

Eliot swallowed. “Oh, shit.”

_A private smile lifted on his lips, bringing out dimples Eliot had never seen before, blooming like a primrose in a secret garden._

_“You’re beautiful,” Quentin said quietly._

It had been there from the start.

_”Yeah,” Quentin said, voice as small as his smile. “Good surprise.”_

The whole time.

_Quentin pushed down the boxers, licking the exposed skin between the grooves of his pelvic bones, lighting up every nerve ending like fire. "Making you feel good makes me feel good.”_

Eliot had been stupid. He’d been blind. He hadn’t seen what was right there, what Quentin had been saying, over and over and over and—

 _“You’re the most fun I’ve ever had,” Quentin said when he pulled away, with so much conviction, radiant and gorgeous. His arms were wound around Eliot’s neck, his fingers were tangled in his hair, and he was_ smiling _, eyes dancing with the glow of the fire. “El, I’m so— You make me so—”_

Eliot stood up, scrambling to his feet. He had used that as a weapon in his mind, against himself, against Quentin. But he knew—he _knew_ it wasn’t like when the other boys said it. 

Not even close. 

Eliot knew that, he had always _known_ that, it was his cowardice that twisted it. He knew fun was rare for Quentin. That it was something precious, something sacred, something he had grown to never expect. To never hope for. And Eliot giving him that—giving him fun, giving him delight, even when they were pissed or cold or lost in a goddamn river cave, that was—

It was—

“ _And you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is it. This is what you’ve spent your entire life trying to find. That measure of safety, or—or even happiness, in someone else’s arms, in that singular way they look at you._ ”

Eliot couldn’t breathe. “Oh my god.”

_“Oh my god.” Quentin abruptly paced away. His face was flushed and wild, a slow smile starting to spread across his features. “Holy shit.”_

_“Who makes you happy, Q?” Something tugged at Eliot’s heart, the vibration of a single violin string._

“Me,” Eliot breathed, standing alone in the beautiful grass, in the beautiful golden light. “It’s—me. I make Quentin happy.”

—He knew the answer.

Eliot let out a shuddering breath, every part of him wrenched from the inside. He said it as an offering, to the Djinn, to the fates, to the universe at large. 

As a prayer, for impossible things. 

It took every bit of his paltry courage, of his nonexistent inner strength, to lift his eyes up to the man in question. Half of him still expected Quentin to retreat, to give him that devastating look of gentle pity, of that achingly kind look of _oh, Eliot, no, I’m sorry, it’s not like that for me_ , the look he had feared every day of his life, since his life restarted, on the day Quentin Coldwater stumbled through the bushes and into the light. But when their eyes met, Quentin was—Quentin was—

Quentin was nodding.

He was _nodding_ , speechless and silently sobbing, face red and crinkled, eyes burning bright. He nodded desperately, over and over again, lifting Eliot’s heart and making the world fall away, just like the first time he’d looked at Eliot, and the second, and the third, and the…

“Q,” Eliot whispered.

Everything went black.

* * *

**Brakebills University**

_Upstate New York, New York_

The sky over the Sea was dreary. The grass under his feet, muddy and slick. 

There was nothing special about the air, nothing dazzling about the light. It was a regularly scheduled rain day, a Monday morning, not even at the lifeless slog of a Tuesday yet. It was as familiar as life could get, as the world could get, especially at a place like Brakebills. Everything was silent, except the whizz and zing of rote magic, the muttered curses under stressed students’ breath, the shuffle of term papers and the squeak of boots on pavement. His shoulder bumped into one of the punk-lite psychics as he ran, and ran, and ran, and she telepathically threatened to rip his ballsack out his dickhole. 

Eliot Waugh was home, and he was running as fast as he could.

He had woken up in his own bed just before dawn. Actually, he had _jolted_ up, heart beating fast and breath strangled, the concepts of space and time and the fabric of reality all completely foreign and entangled. His hands had scrambled for purchase, still searching for the soft grass of Central Park, the constant orchestral music that played in the background, that piercing look in Quentin’s eyes...

“Quentin,” Eliot had whispered into the cold, dark air of his room. “Q, where—?”

“Sorry to disappoint, asshole,” a grumbling voice came from his bed. Eliot jumped higher, yelped louder, as the lump on his left side shifted in annoyance. “You know, I just took care of you all fucking night and stopped you from making a _peak_ dumbass decision, but sure, yeah, _Quentin_. Let’s talk about Quentin some goddamn more.” 

Fondness had bloomed in his chest. Eliot placed a hand on her slender shin, covered in his sheets. “Good to see you, Bambi.”

“You owe me a smoothie and foot rub.”

Margo had still been in her outfit from the doomed party, pinned up hair a rat’s nest and cheeks lined with long red pillow marks. She had cocked a half-asleep eye up at him, proving sardonic and serious all at once. Eliot had sighed, sliding his hand up her leg, to her back, until he could lie beside her and curl around her, for just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he had whispered in her ear, pressing a light kiss to her temple.

She had just snorted, settling her cheek back into the pillow. “Yeah, you mentioned. We’re good, El. It was messy drunk shit.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“Well, that’s just true.” Margo had reached her hand up, patting his cheek. “It’s all gonna be fine, baby. Q will be pissed for a hot second, but he’ll get over it. He knows you.”

Eliot had taken a slow, hitching breath, the kind that stabbed his tar-riddled lungs. “Yeah, well, I don’t even know how bad it was. I sort of blacked out. I think.”

“Huh, no shit? Must’ve missed that.”

“Did I summon a Djinn?” Eliot had asked his hand gripping tight to her hip. “I don’t remember much and what I do remember is—weird. So I don’t know—”

“You tried,” Bambi had said quietly. “Dude showed up, you made a very sweet and very stupid wish, and I think it, like, broke the Djinn, ‘cause it just fucked off. You cried for a little bit, kept saying that Quentin broke up with you—which, FYI, definitely not what happened—and then you just kind of fell asleep. Anticlimactic as shit. Thank god.”

“So the peak dumbass decision was actually...”

“Whatever the hell you thinking talking to Mike while amped up on that aphrodisiac coke. He’s gone, by the way. Said we’re too much _drama_ , the cock.”

“He is a cock,” Eliot had agreed, furrowing his brow into the crook of her neck. An aphrodisiac. That had meant either Eliot had dreamt the whole thing up or the Djinn had been able to access—

It didn’t matter.

Either way, he needed to fix this.

“Bambi, don’t hate me, but I have to go.”

“He’s in the Attic, honey,” Margo had said, closing her eyes. “You’re not getting near him. Q wasn’t—he was really... he was mad, okay? And if Julia saw him like that—” She swallowed. “It’s gonna be fine, I know it, but—”

“Trust me, I know,” Eliot had said, kissing her cheek. “But I have to—I have to try. As soon as possible. I can’t let him think the way he’s thinking for another second.”

That, or they had a conversation to finish. Maybe one day he’d tell Margo all about it.

Margo had rolled over in his arms, big eyes searching his face with a sigh. Even with smudged eye makeup and puffy cheeks, she was stunning. “You really like him a lot, huh?”

Eliot had tilted his face into a regretful smile. “Sorry.”

“You could do worse.” Margo had tilted her forehead to rest against his chin. “He can’t do better.”

“I think you and I need some time for us,” Eliot had murmured into her hairline. “Something special, just you and me.”

“You sound like a non-custodial parent. But sure, let’s do a spa day, bitch.”

Eliot had cupped her cheek. “Love you, bitch.”

“Obvs,” Margo had chirped, lifting up on her elbow to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his mouth. Then she had flopped back onto her belly, starfishing out with a demand that he _brush his goddamn teeth_. 

Head swimming with a horrible hangover and too many pieces of memory, Eliot had raked a hand through his unruly curls and moved down to settle on the foot of the bed. The Djinn bottle was on the floor, shattered in pieces. He had no idea if the next time he saw Quentin, he would be facing a man who had last seen him in Central Park, the dawn of realization crossing his face right before he was snatched away, or if he would be facing a man who had last seen him cruelly sneering at him, denying the obvious, like a goddamn coward. Both options were terrifying.

But there was only one way to find out which one he was up against.

So Eliot had started running. 

He ran, and he ran, and he ran, en route to the library, up to the Attic, where he knew he would find Quentin. Like Margo had said, Julia was sure to be a fire-breathing mama hen, but he could take his lumps if it meant he would get to see Quentin. To talk to Quentin, to tell him everything he had always deserved to hear, everything that Quentin had been telling Eliot all along. Everything they had both felt, together, this whole time.

When Eliot reached the far end of the Sea, unathletic body aching and tar-riddled lungs out of breath, there was a red lighthouse calling to him through the gray. Still in his softest flannel, with staticky long hair in matted bun and dark circles under his eyes, Quentin pushed his way out the library doors. 

His skin was splotched red, his shoulders almost parallel to the ground. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and he fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a pack of Julia’s Parliaments. Quentin lit the cigarette with magic, protecting it from the elements, plumes of gray and white smoke quickly obstructing his face. The rain drizzled down his hair, making it stick to his head and he closed his eyes when he reached the Brakebills sign, slumping against the marble.

He was the most beautiful thing Eliot had ever seen.

Eliot raced the rest of the way toward him, almost eating shit in a particularly egregious mud puddle, splattering brown mud all over his wrinkled pants. Quentin must have heard him, but he didn’t look up, barely even twitched in acknowledgment. Eliot didn’t let that deter him, moving as close as he could, until he was pressed against the carved sign, inches from him.

“Q,” Eliot panted out, resting a hand against the wet stone, catching his breath. “Quentin. Hi.”

Quentin smoked. “Hey.”

“I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, flicking a bit of ash to the ground. “Probably.”

He didn’t say anything more. The cigarette dangled between his fingers, rain bouncing off the filter. 

“Your answer to this question has no bearing on what I need to say to you. But just for context, so I know if we’re on the same page here...” Eliot’s heart thrummed on a wire as the rain fell in rivulets down his nose. “Was it a dream?”

Quentin finally looked at him.

His dulled brown eyes lit up, not with joy or relief or anything so easily categorized. They were sharp and knowing, desperate and terrified. Hopeful. As always. They moved over Eliot slowly, while his cigarette started to tremble, hard and quick.

“No,” Quentin said, the line of his throat bobbing. “No, it wasn’t a dream.”

Eliot smiled, his heart glowing brighter than the sun. “It happened?”

“I mean, _something_ happened.” Quentin let out a breathless chuckle. “Shit, I thought I was… I thought it was just me.”

Eliot shook his head, stepping closer to him, until they were almost sharing breath, almost sharing each other’s heat. “ _Quentin_.”

Their life wasn’t a romantic comedy. 

It never would be. 

They were both a little too damaged, a little too fragile. They were both a little too sharp, a little too _much_ , to be some kind of ideal to the masses. Eliot knew that their love would mean hearing and saying _I’m sorry_ a lot. Neither of them had ever expected much of a _rest of their lives_ , so saying they wanted the _rest of their lives to start as soon as possible_ was still—it wasn’t something they were well-equipped to wrap their heads around. 

But at the same time—

Eliot pulled himself tall, tossing back his wet curls, and closed the small gap between him and Quentin, so they were sharing breath, so they were sharing heat. There was no way in hell he was going to throw away this perfect moment, in this cold and dreary rain, in this entirely fucked up place. 

Their _home_.

Eliot took a deep breath. “I already own a horseradish grater, Q.”

Maybe it wasn’t _you had me at hello_ or _if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more_ or _most of all, I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you,_ even though they were true too. For him, for his Quentin, always. But that wasn’t their life. They weren’t glossy cinema stars with hearts in their eyes. They were just two broken kids navigating a fucked up world, hopefully together.

Quentin didn’t say anything, eyes burning like wildfire through the rainy gray haze. 

“I don’t love you _despite_ your fuck ups, Q,” Eliot said, lifting his hand and wrapping it around the back of Quentin’s neck. His hair was soaking wet already, his skin too cold. “I never wish you were less of an asshole or more put together or—or more fun at parties or whatever it is you think. I don’t love you just for the best of you, sweetheart. There is no best of you. It’s all of you, always, every tiny piece.”

“You love me?” The question came softly, like broken glass on newly fallen snow.

“Of course I do,” Eliot whispered, shockingly simple once it was done. “God, sweetheart, I’m so—of course I do.”

“Jesus,” Quentin breathed out, eyes closing and head falling forward. His cigarette fell to the ground. “Jesus. I thought—I _thought_ I was going crazy or—”

“I’m so sorry,” Eliot said, pleading. “I got scared yesterday. It was intense, and I bolted, and I made excuses, and I fixated on all the shit that didn’t matter like Alice and Julia and—”

Quentin wrapped one arm around his waist, settling in close on his chest. “Guess I can’t blame you for that. I’m sorry.”

”No,” Eliot said, desperately kissing his head again and again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. If I was clear about not wanting you, which I will—I will spend every day making up to you if you’ll let me. But if I was clear about that, then you have been clear about—”

”It’s not that simple. I should have considered how that would make you feel, if it was putting up a wall between us. I just—I externalize my thought processes too much sometimes and I think hurts people more than I realize or mean and—”

“Q,” Eliot said softly, thumbing at his perfect mouth. “I love you and I hear you, but can I please give you my rom com speech before I lose my nerve? I ran through the rain and everything.”

Quentin huffed a laugh, lips pressing into a tender smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I love making you laugh,” Eliot said quickly, voice thick with feeling, as he risked another gentle touch to Quentin’s chest, palming up the soft flannel. “I love, uh, making sure you eat something other than fast food, at least once a week. I love listening to your rants and your rambles even when I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I love watching stupid movies with you. I’ll—I’ll even watch Lord of the Rings, if you want, and you can talk the whole time. I _want_ you to talk the whole time.” 

Quentin started to smile, though it wobbled.

“I love listening to you read. I love your dimples. Like, I mean, I _really_ fucking love your dimples and your hair and all the—the furry hair on your wrists and your toes.” He laughed when Quentin’s fingers reflexively slid around the grooves of his wrist bones. “I love the way you look at me. It’s perfect, every time.”

Quentin swallowed, kicked at the mud. “Wow, that’s, uh,” he smiled and sniffed, glancing up at with a wavering wry. “That’s a pretty good speech.”

Eliot arched a brow. “I’m not done.”

”Oh, uh, okay. Sorry. Keep going.”

Eliot grinned at him, something bright and sparkling taking off between his ribs. He down to the ground and pulled Quentin down with him, into the mud and staining grass. Quentin’s chin shook violently, tears filling his eyes. Rain droplets pooled in his hair, the gray-white clouds reflecting in his beautiful eyes. 

“I love touching you, _fucking_ you,” Eliot whispered into his knuckles, pressing a soft kiss there. “I love making you feel good. I love being your friend because I don’t—I don’t actually have a lot of those. It’s precious to me, and I’m _so_ sorry I tainted that, that I diminished it. Because more than anything, I love—I love being your friend, your partner. I want to be your partner, Q. Your boyfriend. If you’ll still have me. If I didn’t totally fuck this up.”

Quentin sobbed, “El.”

“I love you.” Eliot pulled himself up, wrapping his arms around Quentin’s waist to tip their foreheads together. “I love you so much. I’m _in_ love with you and you—you make me so happy, it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever—I basically manifested a rom com hellscape to try to give you something more than me, because it scared me so much, but I couldn’t. I still—I still found you.”

“El,” Quentin said again, so hushed. “Baby, we already had each other. You make me happy. You make me _so_ happy.”

“You make me happier than I ever—” Eliot let out a laugh, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “Jesus, you know, I’m—I’m not sure I even believe in happily ever after as a concept, Q, no matter many of those fucking movies I watch. But god, you make me want to believe in it.” He brushed their noses together. “You make me want to try for it.”

“I don’t believe in it either.” Quentin smiled, bright as the sun. “You make me want to try for it too.”

Eliot let out a giggle, almost hysterical, as joy expanded in his chest. “Oh my god. Shit. Is this really—?”

“Yeah, uh, I think it is,” Quentin laughed, wondrous and awed and _happy_ . “And, uh, I—I love all of you too. Like, for the record. I even kinda like that you’re a mean son-of-a-bitch sometimes. Though I think you’re, uh, less of that than you realize. The heat of you is so—so good, and kind, and warm, and _loving_ , and—god, you make me feel—you make me—I’ll never live up to—”

Eliot shook his head. “No, baby, I’m going to fuck up a lot. Like, a lot. I have zero templates for any of this, Q. I think I’ve thoroughly proved that.”

“I mean, yeah,” Quentin shrugged. “Same.”

—He tugged Eliot in for a kiss. 

No music played. The crowd didn’t cheer. The lights didn’t spin and neither of them floated off the ground in a haze of romantic magic. And Eliot came easily, meeting him like they’d been there a hundred times before, soft mouth moving against his like home. 

Their own axis spun, the little golden pocket of time, just for them, too sweet to be a movie kiss. Too delicate. Too _much_. Water droplets slid down their cheeks, onto their lips, cool and clean in contrast to the tears that burned bright and sharp. Eliot held Quentin’s cheek in the cradle of his palm, like he was fragile, precious. He kissed him gently, over and over again, until he could finally breathe.

“So, uh, for the record, I’m gonna be, like, super pissed at you once we get some sleep,” Quentin murmured, fingers trailing down his jawline, kissing him between every word. “We’ve worked through some shit and that’s great, but you were a total dick last night to, like, everyone and you did cooperative magic on your own which was really dangerous. So we’re gonna _fight_ about it. And then we’re gonna have, uh, the most epic makeup sex. Then take a snack breath and maybe fight again. Just FYI.”

Thunder broke the clouds overhead and every last bit of it sounded like magic.

Eliot smiled against his boyfriend’s lips. “Can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Tumblr is @hmgfanfic. Happy rom com season all!


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